


Ostinato

by dragonofdispair, Rizobact



Series: Vampiric Codex [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampires, Angst, Blood Drinking, Canon What Canon?, Dark Fantasy, Horror, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Manipulation, Medical Experimentation, Minor Character Death, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Vampire!Jazz, Vampire!Knockout, Vampire!Ricochet, Vampire!Shockwave, Vampires, Violence, rape/non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 11:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: After generations of safety, vampires stalk Cybertron's nights once again… The general populace no longer knows what they should to keep themselves safe, and before they have a chance to learn better, Jazz and Ricochet find themselves getting pulled deeper and deeper into a darkness from which there is no escape.





	1. Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Found the Halloween/October Bingo card on the Discord server (and other places) and decided to use it to explore some more vampires! Prompts were Ghost Story, Moon, Monster, Shadow, and Curse, to make a complete line.
> 
> All of you better appreciate how much chocolate we had to eat to get through this! ~dragon
> 
> And tissues, though we didn’t eat those. Or the kitten videos. Do yourself a favor and cue one up now. ~Rizo
> 
> Warnings: _Major and Minor Character Death,_ torture, non consensual medical experimentation, rape/noncon
> 
> Thanks to Menial for her help!

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Spark hammering in his chest, Ricochet tried not to get caught up in the fleeing crowd. Not much of a crowd, not compared to the numbers Megatronus or any of the triple-A fight winners brought in, but more than enough to trample the two of them in the panic. Seeing a spot up ahead to pull out and take cover, at least until the crowd was thinner and they could run properly, Rico pulled Jazz to the side and pushed him into the alcove ahead of him. Then he whirled around, pressing up against Jazz with his back and brandished the broken armrest threateningly.

No one was going to hurt his twin!

“I appreciate not gettin’ trampled to death, but you’re squishing me a bit back here.” Jazz’s voice wouldn’t have been audible at all over all the noise if he hadn’t been speaking right into Ricochet’s audio, and his words were at complete odds with the anxiety rolling across their bond. 

“Do more than squish you if you don’t shut up,” Ricochet growled, not inching forward to give Jazz room.  _ He _ didn’t want to get trampled either!

“What?”

Ricochet ignored Jazz. The alcove wasn’t big, and there was only barely room for two of them at all. He’d love to give Jazz some room, but…

The worst press of the crowd passed, and Ricochet finally let Jazz push him out into the emptying hallway. He stumbled, but righted himself, too stressed to turn the moment into a playful shoving match like he normally would. He let the broken armrest dangle from his fingers. “Don’t see a fire or anything,” he mused, looking around.

“So what happened?” With the immediate danger out of the way, Jazz was confused rather than frightened. “I didn’t see what started it.”

Che. Like Ricochet had? They hadn’t exactly had the best seats to see  _ anything. _

Footsteps trotting quickly down the hall had Rico bringing the armrest up again as a makeshift weapon, brandishing it against—

“Knockout?”

The gladiator lowered his claws, which had come up in a fighting stance in response to Ricochet’s aborted challenge. His optics glowed as red as his sparkling finish as he swept his gaze over them both assessingly. “Not the show you two paid to see, was it?” 

“Not exactly,” Ricochet admitted with a waver in his voice. There were extremely expensive backstage tickets that allowed fans to talk to or get an autograph from one of the gladiators, but they’d never been able to afford one, much less two! But if they had, they would have paid for a few kliks with Knockout, one of the best racers in the arena!

“What’s a vampire doing out of the pens?” Jazz asked in a whisper.

“What does it look like?” Knockout said before Ricochet could respond, despite the fact that he’d only just heard his twin standing right next to him. “I’m making a bid for freedom, just like all the rest.”

“The rest?” Ricochet and Jazz had come to see the races, the “fights” pitting the faster, lighter gladiators against each other in contests of speed — of whom Knockout was their favorite champion! — but of course there were other, more violent fights. Megatronus and Starscream and Onslaught… Maybe they should have taken their chances with getting trampled!

“Hmm, a frightening prospect for you, I see,” Knockout said smoothly. “But you know, it’s a little frightening for me too! I haven’t been outside the arena in so long I doubt I’ll recognize a thing, and I’d hate to get lost trying to stay ahead of the big boys. I don’t suppose,” he tipped his helm and tapped his chin thoughtfully with a sharp, pointed finger, “the two of you know your way around here?”

“How do we know you’re not just going to eat us?” Jazz accused from behind Ricochet, who nodded, tightening his grip on the broken armrest. Knockout was an idol, but he was still a vampire. While he wasn’t a fighter, and there were two of them, once he was outside he could separate them, or join up with one of the other vampires to even the odds.

“Now, really — eating you would be a poor way to repay a favor. I promise, if you help me get beneath the plate, I won’t put so much as a single scratch on either of you. It’s not like I’m a starving  _ feral,”  _ he sneered the word with disgust.

“We’ve never been beneath the plate.” Ricochet slowly lowered his makeshift weapon, though he didn’t really relax. “It’s not a good place.”

“We can help you out of the arena, though.”

“Jazz!”

“What?” Jazz bounced around Ricochet. “It’s  _ Knockout. _ You don’t really want him caught and beaten up by the gladiators, do you? Or caught and put back in the pens?”

Ricochet eyed the vampire sidelong. Well… maybe?

“However bad it is beneath the plate, it will be better than what I have to endure here,” Knockout said, his plating drawing close in a slight shudder. “Being fast doesn’t help me if I don’t have anywhere to run, and the pens are so crowded… The guards don’t do anything to stop the older, bigger vampires from picking on whoever they want, and just because the wounds they inflict aren’t fatal doesn’t mean they don’t hurt.”

The twins exchanged a look, a speaking glance that had more to do with what they felt in their shared spark than their optics. “We still don’t know how to get beneath the plates. There aren’t really any maps,” Ricochet said.

“But you can stay at our apartment for a few cycles while we find a way for you,” Jazz finished.

“Really? You’d be willing to do that much for me?” Red plating relaxed as Knockout stood a little straighter, looking between the twins hopefully. “Please! Lead the way. And when we reach your place,” he winked, “you’ll have to let me know what I can sign for you.”

“Will!”

Leading Knockout back to the apartment was easier said than done. There was a checkpoint outside the arena to account for the spectators, and to make sure none of the vampires got out by blending into the crowd. Knockout said he’d find a way to get out on his own and find them on the other side, but Ricochet and Jazz were still nervous, bordering on terrified, that they’d be caught somehow as they made their way through it. Fortunately their stress was blamed on the incident by the police, and they were let through. 

They loitered a city block away, pushing each other to alleviate their jitters, while they waited for Knockout to find them again.

“I can’t even believe this is what our night’s turned into,” Jazz said, holding back what Ricochet could feel was slightly hysterical laughter. “This is crazy!”

“Brightside though,” Ricochet chortled, shoving Jazz playfully. “Finally going to get those posters signed.”

“Are! Although,” Jazz shoved back, “this means he’s going to see the mess you left in the kitchen.”

Ricochet made a face. “I didn’t expect to have guests!” He let the shoving contest draw him into a short scuffle. It allowed them both let off some of that nervous energy; if they started laughing hysterically, they probably wouldn’t ever stop. He swiped playfully at Jazz’s blue optics and shuttered his own, yellow, ones against a similar “attack”; love and relief flowed back and forth along their sparkbond. “I’ll clean it up as soon as we get home.”

“You’d better. Guess that just means he’ll have to sign my poster first.”

“Oh, I  _ hope  _ you weren’t fighting over that,” Knockout’s voice drifted over from a dark corner. At first neither of them could see anything, but then his optics blazed to life and he stepped forward to rejoin them. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you both get signatures, no matter who goes first.”

“Nope,” Ricochet assured. “It’s just… a thing. We do it sometimes.”

“Yeah. Didn’t mean to upset you or anything,” Jazz piped up, and Rico got the impression that maybe Knockout was intimidated by fighting, since he was a racer stuck in the same pen as a bunch of big scary fighters, being bullied. “Ain’t hurting each other.”

“So you were… play-fighting?” He frowned briefly, then shook his head. “As long as you’re both unhurt.”

“Are,” Rico confirmed. “Come on. It’s this way.” He folded himself down into his alt form and edged out of the alley. The street was empty, and he led them a few streets away before merging onto one of the larger thoroughfares they needed to get home.

Knockout didn’t seem to be having any trouble with the roads — not that Ricochet had expected him to! — but he was cautious, leaving plenty of room for other vehicles and very carefully observing the speed limits. Probably didn’t want to draw attention, which Rico could get behind. A speeding ticket would be the least of their worries if they got pulled over.

Their apartment was in an old warehouse area that had been refurbished. Most of the apartments and houses were rented out to other artists like the two of them. Pulling up to the garage entrance, Knockout hesitated, and Ricochet transformed to gesture it was okay for him to come inside, as long as he stayed quiet. 

Jazz went to engage the building’s single security guard in distracting conversation, while Ricochet led Knockout up to their room.

“Home sweet home,” Rico caroled, but refrained from throwing the door open loudly like he usually did. Sometimes the neighbors complained about the echo from the hall and he didn’t want them poking their heads out tonight. “Let’s just…” he steered Knockout  _ away _ from the kitchen and into the small living room, which was cluttered with his drumset and Jazz’s half-dozen or so other instruments. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m already much more comfortable for being somewhere safe and secure.” Knockout looked around the room with interest, red optics flickering with something (recognition?) at several of the posters on the wall. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a chance to wash up.”

“Oh. Right.” And that would give Ricochet a chance to clean the kitchen! “Here.” He led the way to the cramped shower room and swept the curtain aside. “Hot. Cold.” He demonstrated how to turn on the showerhead (it was tricky and it’d taken them a couple of cycles to actually figure it out themselves). “Got a few different kinds of polish for after, if you want,” he gestured to the shelf. “Let me get you a sponge and a cloth.”

“Thank you!” Knockout said with obvious pleasure when Ricochet passed the supplies to him. “I’ll try not to be  _ too  _ long.”

“Cool.” Ricochet scurried off to give him privacy and go clean up the kitchen.

Which mostly involved washing the dishes and cleaning up the foam sludge that had spilled from his last attempt at making warmed energon with silver puffs. Contrary to what Jazz thought, it wasn’t a  _ total _ disaster area! And Ricochet didn’t hear Jazz  _ complaining _ about having toasted silver puffs to put in his breakfast energon, even if the weirdo insisted on drinking his fuel cooled. 

And speaking of the weirdo… 

“We’re all good,” Jazz said, being equally careful about the door as he closed and locked it. “He saw you had someone with you but didn’t recognize him. Mech must not have functioning optics. How do you  _ not  _ recognize Knockout?!”

“Dunno.” Ricochet shrugged, scrubbing at the stubborn silvery oxide stuck to the counter. “Maybe he doesn’t follow the arena fights and stuff.”

“Maybe. Shouldn’t complain I guess, since he’d’ve asked questions otherwise, but still.” Jazz danced excitedly in place, mouthing  _ Knockout’s in our apartment! _

Ricochet  _ didn’t _ squeak in agreement. He didn’t!

“Gotta figure out what to do now,” he said a moment later, still not squeaking. “I mean, he’s a vampire right? Means he’s going to have… issues? Of some kind? In the morning.” Vampires in romance novels never really specified where they went during the day; they just disappeared, with the narrative conveniently skipping over any sort of daytime logistics — and often  _ daytime _ completely — as irrelevant to the plot. 

Jazz let his optics bounce around the apartment, and all of its exterior windows. “Maybe we can block ‘em off somehow?” The inbuilt shutters were a bit warped. Even when fully closed they let streaks of sunlight spill in across the floor in the afternoon. “It’d be easier,” he swallowed hard around a thrill at the thought, “to cover up the one in the bedroom, if he needs someplace dark.”

“Probably.” Though there really was a question of  _ how _ dark Knockout would need it to be. Those shutters weren’t the best either. “We can ask, but…” Rico thought. “Maybe go clean out that closet with all of your sound system scrap in it just in case that’s not enough?”

“Ain’t scrap!” Jazz (predictably) retorted, but started heading in that direction. “And anyway, half of it’s yours!”

“But I’m cleaning the kitchen,” Ricochet shot back, pointedly bending back down to keep scrubbing, though the stain was almost gone now.

“Uh  _ huh.”  _ Jazz’s voice faded as he moved into the next room, and the sounds of him arguing with the sound equipment followed shortly after. Ricochet snickered.

Eventually he did finish the kitchen and then went to help Jazz move some of the larger pieces of sound equipment from the closet to the living room with the instruments. Spirits high, they bantered back and forth about what they were going to have Knockout sign when he got out of the shower.

To  _ no one’s _ surprise, Jazz had his spark set on that one poster he’d had for absolutely ever. It had tatters on the edges! 

“Well I’m going to be reasonable and have him sign something that  _ won’t  _ fall apart the instant the stylus touches it,” Ricochet said, holding up his Gladiators: Racers Special Edition mug to illustrate his point. “Whenever he finishes up in the shower. I thought he would have been done by now.”

“Maybe he was hurt?” Jazz looked over toward the shower in concern.

“Didn’t look like it, but…” Maybe one of them should check? Ricochet met his twin’s optics as a wordless  _ you-or-me?  _ passed between them.

“I can do it,” Jazz volunteered. Ricochet could tell he didn’t like the thought of interrupting their new guest, but they were worried, Primusdamnit!

Jazz slinked over there while Ricochet went back to the kitchen. Their first aid kit was in there, and even if Knockout didn’t need any help, they would still need dinner. Something nice, even if all Ricochet knew how to make was toasted silver puffs.  _ Knockout was in their apartment! _

“Knockout?” Jazz called softly, rapping on the wall outside the shower. “You okay in there?”

“Oh! Have I been that long?” Ricochet heard the curtain pull back, then felt a bolt of surprise from his twin. He started to turn around, worried, but that worry turned to curiosity as Jazz’s surprise melted into appreciation. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just wanted to make sure I looked my best for the two of you.”

Ricochet’s jaw dropped. Intellectually he knew their performance polish was made to be… alluring, but it was quite another thing to see it on Knockout’s gleaming red plating. “Uh…” He smelled something in his pan start to scorch and whirled back around real quick. “Scrap!”

A rich chuckle followed him, and Ricochet was  _ not  _ jealous of Jazz for getting to stand there staring some more.

“I thought I heard someone moving things around out here?”

“We weren’t sure how much sunlight was too much, and our shutters ain’t the best, so we were clearing out the closet just in case,” Ricochet heard Jazz say brightly, even solicitously. Ricochet himself tried to salvage his batch of silver puffs. “Want me to show you?”

“Lead the way,” Knockout said with— Primus, was that a purr? Jazz was leading a  _ purring Knockout  _ into their bedroom?!

Not jealous. Nope. Totally not jealous. See how not jealous he was, focusing on the cooking and not making a new mess of the freshly cleaned kitchen.

Still  _ not jealous, _ Ricochet plated the only  _ slightly _ scorched puffs and set them on the middle of the bar between the kitchen and the living room, then poured three cubes of energon. He considered for a moment, then moved the entire set up to the couch. They only had two stools.

Debating whether he should interrupt — at least he knew they weren’t fragging in there! — Ricochet finally pounded on the door before barging in. “Dinner’s ready,” he said grumpily. Not jealous.

“Dinner?” Jazz opened the door. “Thanks. Closet’s good, apparently, when it comes to being dark enough.”

“Yes, unfortunately I need  _ complete  _ darkness to rest properly,” Knockout said, peeking out of the closet. “Otherwise I might ask if there was room in the berth for a third.”

Ricochet did not  _ squeak. _

“Well, um, I poured energon and heated some silver puffs for us. If, you know, you want to join us on the couch?”

“Why don’t you two go ahead and start while I finish making things comfortable in here? I’ll join you as soon as I’m done.”

“‘Kay,” Jazz chirped. “Remember to just take any of the blankets and stuff you want. We’ll make do.”

“Planning on joining him in the closet when he’s done?” Ricochet snipped. Not  _ jealous. _ Miffed. Miffed was a good word.

“No.” He sounded like he wanted to, but, “He said the door needs to stay shut all day, so we can’t be coming and going and messing up his sun barrier.” Jazz mimed stuffing a towel along the bottom of a door. 

That was something, at least. With a huff, Ricochet grabbed Jazz by the arm and insistently planted him on the couch. Then he planted his own aft on the couch next to him.

“Aww, relax, would you?” Jazz leaned against him briefly, then reached forward to grab a cube. “I’m already trying not to be nervous without dealing with your mood too.”

“I’m good. I’m relaxed.” Ricochet grabbed his own cube and tried to make it the truth. Their emotions tended to feedback loop on each other. It was a thing, just part of being twins. They would always be reflections, or shadows, of each other.

They were doing better, if not completely settled, when Knockout emerged from the bedroom. “Thank you again for all you’re doing for me,” he said smoothly. “I wish I’d known sooner I had such wonderful fans.” 

“It’s fine.” Ricochet scooched over, squishing Jazz into the armrest of the couch and gestured to the third, untouched cube. “The arena sounds awful, the way you describe it. You don’t deserve to be there.”

“Lucky we were there tonight, huh?” 

“We,” Ricochet elbowed his twin. Jazz meant all three of them, but his wording made him sound arrogant to anyone who wasn’t bonded to him.  _ “We’re _ lucky.”

“That’s what I meant,” Jazz whined.

Knockout grinned, watching them both. “I certainly feel lucky. And all we’ve done so far is sit here on the couch.”

They  _ eeped. _

“Hmm… does that mean you might be open to the idea of something a little more  _ intimate  _ than sitting together?”

They  _ eeped  _ again. 

Ricochet shoved down the sudden excitement and arousal. It wasn’t a fair question, but — “Which one of us were you thinking of? We don’t usually…” They both occasionally took their own fans to bed, but usually not together, even if, well, it was impossible not to do it at the same time. Arousal and overload were impossible to ignore when they could practically feel each other being touched.

“You don’t share? At  _ all,  _ or just not at the same time? Because I’d hate to have to choose.”

Jazz and Ricochet looked at each other, the bond twisting with emotions. There was no doubt at all that, if Knockout was offering, they both  _ wanted. _ And whichever one ended up in the berth with him, the other would be in the shower, suffering, without another partner here. Which they couldn’t go out and get, because Knockout needed to stay a secret. And then there was Ricochet’s jealousy from just a few kliks ago… “I mean,” Jazz said slowly, feeling his way into the words as he said them, leaning on the bond to ensure they felt right, “we can share. Just this once. If you don’t mind.”

“If you think you can handle us,” Ricochet taunted, his bravado much more firmly in place.

“You’re challenging me?” He sounded amused and intrigued rather than offended, and while there was no detectable lust in his field (there wasn’t much of anything in it actually, which was a bit odd), there was blatant intent in the glint of his optics and the curve of his smile. “Challenge accepted. I’ll even give you a chance to finish fueling up first,” he purred. “You’ll need your strength if you’re going to keep up with me.”

Ricochet plastered his own cocky grin on his lips, and felt Jazz copy him. Oh Primus. This had to be some sort of dream.

“What about you?” Jazz asked when Knockout made no move to take the third cube.

“Vampire,” Knockout replied, a hint of fangs creeping into his smile. “Regular energon disagrees with me.”

“Oh,” the word came out of their vocalizers at the same time. Ricochet frowned. That wasn’t in the novels he’d read. Most of them framed biting as… as an option. Something vampires did because it was… pleasurable. They said nothing about regular fuel being a problem. “How… uh… Much, um…” Ricochet trailed off.

“How much… do I require from living beings? I can go cycles between feedings without too much trouble, but then I need a larger meal. Smaller sips every other cycle or so… well, I’ve had partners tell me afterward they were able to replenish their levels with what you have here,” Knockout gestured to the table. “And I always make sure they get something out of it as well.”

“Do you need… anything,” Ricochet spoke over his twin’s worried  _ What do you think you’re doing? _ “Tonight? ‘Cuz I, uh… ”

“Hmm. I gave you my word before that I wouldn’t hurt you — either of you,” Knockout said, crimson gaze flickering to Jazz before settling its full intensity on Ricochet. He stroked the tip of his foot along Rico’s shin flirtatiously as he slowly, delicately, reached out and took his hand. “But if you’re offering, I wouldn’t refuse a taste. You won’t even lose consciousness,” he promised. “After all, how could you enjoy it if you weren’t awake?”

Uncertainty swirled through their shared spark, Ricochet’s determination and desire, Jazz’s caution and support… He felt Jazz’s hand on his back, a subtle show of assurance. “Sure,” he managed, almost calmly. “It’s rude, ain’t it, to invite you here then not feed you.” He downed his cube, not even tasting the dissolving silver puffs. “What do you want me to do?”

“I take it this is your first time?” The question was remarkably straightforward, neither condescending nor concerned. He didn’t wait for an answer either, just nodded to himself and leaned back against the couch, pulling on Ricochet’s hand to draw him— oh,  _ Primus,  _ he was sitting in Knockout’s lap! “Just let me touch you.”

Ricochet vibrated like a violino string when Knockout’s caress lit a fire of lust inside his chassis, but Jazz was the one who let out a needy whine. Exquisitely pointed clawtips plucked along sensitive seams, teasing at first before settling into the firm, practiced strokes of someone who really fragging knew what they were doing. Over his hips, up his sides, across his chest… Jazz’s whine changed pitch slightly when Ricochet’s fans came on, trying to pull in cooler air to combat the heady mix of  _ anticipation/arousal _ surging through his frame and across their bond.

Moaning, Ricochet tried to return the caresses, felt Jazz reach out to caress Knockout’s legs — the only place he could reach right now — and he/they were rewarded with a pleased hiss. The thought swirled between them that next time (if there was a next time) they would have to be in the bed; the couch was proving most unsatisfactory.

But his/their arousal was climbing fast, faster than Knockout’s. Sparks danced over Ricochet’s plating almost continuously, and Jazz’s wasn’t far behind. He/they didn’t think they would overload together, not this time; Knockout was just too focused on Ricochet, with Jazz too far away to reach much… A thought occurred and they hesitated, before agreement flowed between them. Ricochet gasped, Jazz moaned, and he felt his twin’s hands on his plating, his warmth against his back. They were almost spark to spark…

“Oh this is interesting,” Knockout said, sounding pleased. He/they felt one of his hands on Jazz’s plating, and they gasped together at the unexpected touch. “Very interesting.”

“He’s…” Jazz started.

“Close,” Ricochet agreed, silently agreeing that Jazz could have Knockout all to himself once he overloaded. Next time… next time, they’d put Knockout  _ between _ them, and they’d both be able to touch him. Until then, the silky smooth touch of Knockout’s armor flowed from Ricochet’s fingertips across their shared spark willingly. The bright red color was dazzling, and would look so nice framed by their black and white.

It didn’t take long. Knockout’s claws skillfully played both twins. Marginally closer, Ricochet gasped, writhing in something very close to discomfort, on the edge of overload.

“Perfect,” Knockout murmured, peeling him away from his twin with a grip as strong as titanium. Ricochet made a noise of confusion, feeling the cooler air of the apartment suddenly against his sensors where his twin’s frame should be, but the feeling was driven back—

“Aaah!” they cried out together, the slight prick of barely-there pain on the primary energon line on his/their neck twining together with the overwhelming pleasure in his/their system, tipping the balance and Ricochet overloaded. Knockout held him still as his frame jerked wildly, then Ricochet crumpled in a daze.

Knockout was still drinking, but afterglow made Ricochet lethargic and uncaring. His twin’s arousal buzzed through his spark, and that was so much more of a concern than the bite. 

Ricochet groaned when he was released. He let himself slide down the couch, out of the way, to collapse. He knew he had the stupidest smile on his face, but he didn’t care…

Jazz pounced.

Eventually they did move to the berth, where Ricochet was smug to prove that they could give as good as they got. All three of them slumped into an almost-passed-out pile long before sunrise. Knockout stayed with them, in their exhausted pile, and that was more than enough reason for them to feel smug together.

They woke when he moved, near sunrise, to settle in the closet. Jazz, the slightly more awake of the two of them, went with him long enough to stuff the towel into the crack under the door, then returned to bed. 

They slept.

A few joors later, the chime from the front door woke them again. Ricochet was still tired, and his frame ached, so Jazz went to answer it.

“He-” Ricochet heard his twin yawn. “Sorry. Hello.”

“Citizen. I’m Officer Chase,” the mech at the door introduced himself. “There was an incident at the arena last cycle and several vampires escaped. We’re checking up on everyone who had tickets to last night’s show to make sure no one’s missing.”

Ricochet felt Jazz thinking frantically. “The _vampires_ _escaped?”_ He tried to sound surprised, and Rico hoped he was convincing.

“Yes,” the officer said simply. “You didn’t know?”

“We weren’t there.” Jazz said, once he’d “recovered” from the news. “Rico’s sick, so I scalped our tickets at the last klik. Dunno any names, but I can give you descriptions?”

“Please.”

Jazz described a pair of mostly nondescript, random mechs. The officer thanked him for his cooperation and bid him to tell Rico that he wished his twin to be well soon. The door closed.

Ricochet automatically shifted to embrace his twin as he climbed into their stripped-bare berth. Knockout had left them one blanket, and he wrapped it around Jazz’s shaking frame.

.

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.


	2. Monster

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.

The hovel Knockout had claimed was a far cry from their shared apartment above the plate, but they’d been forced to flee that just joors before the police had done a door-by-door search of their neighborhood. It hadn’t been how they’d planned, but they’d finally gotten Knockout below the plate.

It was dismal and dirty and none of them liked it. Ricochet lounged near the entrance of Knockout’s lair, trying to look dangerous with his new knife and gun, while Jazz plucked experimentally on the only instrument he’d been able to save. There was no sunrise or sunset down here, not for them, the mortal “minions”, but the vampires were still synced with the rising and setting of the the sun.

It was Jazz’s turn to feed Knockout, and then they could sleep themselves, until near-sunrise.

“Trust me,” the vampire said, sympathy and frustration over their situation in his voice if not his field as he patted Jazz’s shoulder. “As soon as we can find a way out of here, we’re gone.”

“Be easier if, I don’t know, there were trains or something to other places, like you said there used to be,” Ricochet muttered, not quite bitterly. He followed Jazz inside. This was where most of the stuff they’d managed to pack and take from their old apartment had ended up. Maybe it seemed greedy for Knockout to have claimed all the blankets and pillows and such, but realistically, they only had the one bed — more of a nest now — and he and Jazz recharged on it too. Night and day shifts. And it put the locked door of a former shipping crate between their things and the beggars and thieves that had called the under-plate home before the vampires had arrived.

“Ah, ignore him,” Jazz said flippantly. “He’s just grumpy because there was a gang-fight a few streets from here. Pretty nerve wracking.” He set his violino in its case carefully, then set it aside with their stash of cubes of energon and other necessities. “I wrote a thing.” He picked up and brandished their one remaining datapad, which he’d been poking at all cycle. “Wanna hear it?” 

“If you’re willing to share it,” Knockout chuckled, a reference to the times when Jazz would hide the screen from prying optics claiming it “wasn’t ready”. 

“I’d prefer to be able to add in some other instrumentals to it, but…” Jazz turned the datapad to read the screen and started humming what was clearly a violino melody, his voice managing to layer two or three notes together in a way no single instrument could accomplish. It was obviously the very beginnings of a true orchestral piece.

Unable to resist the music in Jazz’s spark now that they weren’t on guard anymore, Ricochet lent his own voice to the layered melodies, though he couldn’t see the sheet music on the screen. It was a somber piece, but underneath it, something hopeful.

Maybe someday they’d get to perform it for an audience like they used to, someplace far away from Iacon’s brutal vampire hunters. It was so unfair that they refused to distinguish between the vampires who fell back on monstrous habits and those who remained civilized. Knockout wasn’t a murderer! But government policy was to attack first and ask questions never — even of mortals, as Jazz had recently found out to his detriment. Ricochet and Knockout had both been livid when he came back from a brief foray to the surface to buy energon covered in scratches and limping slightly from the one stray shot that had caught his foot, all because the hunter had seen the bite scars on his neck.  _ Sympathizer,  _ he’d yelled after him.  _ Traitor. Decepticon!  _ As if Jazz, or Ricochet for that matter, had had anything to do with the Breakout. They’d joined the Decepticons  _ after  _ they’d made their initial escape from the pens.

The song trailed off, but Ricochet’s voice held on for a few more notes that made Jazz’s blue optics light up in happiness, and he scrambled to record them before they faded from the air. He smiled widely when he was done, first at Ricochet, then at Knockout. “What’d you think?”

“I think,” Knockout said, stroking his claws over Jazz’s audial horns, “you are so, incredibly talented. It’s a beautiful start, and I look forward to hearing what you add to it.”

Jazz smiled brightly. Then he yawned, giggling as it ended. “I think I need to recharge before I try writing more though.” He flopped back onto the pile of blankets and scraps. “Help me fall asleep?” 

Knowing Jazz’s intent from the hint of arousal in their shared thoughts, Ricochet sidled sideways, presumptuously stroking the still clean and gleaming planes of Knockout’s armor. Knockout moved away, but only to make more room beside him for Ricochet to lay down. “Do you need help falling asleep too?” he asked, the curve of his smile communicating that he’d heard what Jazz really meant perfectly.

Help me sleep? More like frag me unconscious.

“Yeah,” Ricochet admitted, though more because his twin needed it than himself. If he stayed up, fretting and brooding, neither of them would get as much recharge as they’d need for another cycle of guarding Knockout while he was in torpor. He didn’t just sleep when the sun was up, he was rendered completely incapable of doing or responding to anything, and he relied utterly on them to keep him safe until it was his turn to protect them.

But now wasn’t the time for thoughts. Now was the time for pleasure, and Knockout was, simply put, the best lover either of the twins had ever had. Oh, they’d learned a lot about his frame, how to build his charge and give as good as they got in some respects, but in that same time he’d been learning how to play them the way Jazz played his instruments, and he was very,  _ very  _ good at it.

Even with Knockout between them, Ricochet could feel everything he was doing to Jazz, and knew his twin was getting echoes of everything being done to him. Knockout used that to his advantage, stimulating a neural cluster in Ricochet’s hip that Jazz reacted to more strongly for being filtered through Rico’s perception of it, and vice versa with Jazz’s audial horns. Ricochet moaned with his twin’s appreciation of the caress; muted, unmusical sounds compared to the new song Knockout was coaxing out of Jazz. 

Whichever twin he was feeding from always got the first overload, usually simultaneously with the bite. Jazz cried out in a whole new octave when his pleasure hit the peak of its crescendo, and Ricochet writhed on Knockout’s other side as his twin’s overload rebounded through him. It wasn’t enough…!

Claws stroked soothingly over the bite marks on his neck, mimicking the pressure of the fangs against his twin’s lines. Ricochet shuddered, his/their head falling back to allow easier access. Primus, it felt good! He’d always wondered about the stories, the illicit vampire romances he’d collected that Jazz ~~absolutely~~ totally didn’t know about. The authors had described being bitten as a nearly transcendent experience, and while the reality wasn’t  _ quite  _ that incredible, it wasn’t something he/they wanted to turn down! Knockout somehow made the inevitable pain into something grounding instead of agonizing, prolonging the pleasure with it rather than disrupting it. 

How long did the moment last? There was no way to know. He/they floated on the high, Jazz slowly slipping from his overload down into a sated, sleepy afterglow while Ricochet continued to edge closer to his own completion. He buried his fingers in Knockout’s cables, including him in their pleasure and, yes, trying to draw his attention. He wanted… wanted!

Then, finally, Knockout released Jazz, and Ricochet wanted for nothing.

.

.

.

It was Knockout’s weight returning to the nest, settling between them as they automatically shifted from the cuddle pile they’d formed to make room for him, that woke them. Even then, Ricochet felt reluctant to fully wake and let the moment end. Jazz’s agreement with that sentiment flowed between them and they resettled half on top of their lover.

“Come on you two. I got us some acetone and if you want me to  _ share _ you have to wake up,” Knockout crooned playfully. “Either way,  _ I’m _ cleaning up before I go back to bed this cycle.”

“Can’t if we keep you here,” Jazz mumbled, throwing an arm over Knockout to “pin” him more effectively. Ridiculous, of course, since Knockout was stronger than both of them combined and there was no way they could actually keep him from getting up if he wanted to, but the charade was still amusing.

“As enticing a prospect as you make that, pretty one, I refuse to lose the war on grime. This situation is only temporary, after all.”

“Vain creature,” Ricochet mumbled, without heat. They were no different after all. They all prefered having clean, if not shiny, plating than not. And, as Knockout pointed out, giving up on that felt like giving in and admitting that this was their life, which it wasn’t.

“Does sharing mean we get to make you gorgeous?” Jazz asked, still not moving his arm. “More gorgeous, I mean,” he amended at Knockout’s slight huff.

“Better,” he sniffed with exaggerated haughtiness. “And yes, you can both help me — but only if you get up.”

Ricochet’s answering groan was only half feigned, but he rolled off of Knockout before pushing himself to his feet. On the vampire’s other side, Jazz was doing the same. “Better?”

“Much.” Knockout sat up effortlessly, then pointed over to where he’d set the fresh supplies. It wasn’t much, but the fact that there was anything at all felt like a luxury.

With a whoop, Ricochet snatched up the bottle of acetone and, oh! Real polishing cloths! Only a nanoklik before Jazz, who growled (they’d both gotten much better at growling, since Knockout), and pounced. Ricochet danced away, mockingly sticking his tongue out at the pile of fail flailing on the floor. 

Smug, Ricochet strutted over to the “shower” area of their hovel. It wasn’t a true shower by any means, but they’d meticulously collected and set enough tile shards around the broken drainpipe so they wouldn’t get dirty, even as they were getting clean. Of course there was no showerhead; Rico poured a small measure of the acetone onto a scrap of one of their towels from the apartment, and paused to take in the sharp, clean scent.

“It’s for washing, not inhaling,” Jazz complained, getting back up and coming over to snag the towel scrap out of Ricochet’s hands. Rico let him, since all he wanted with it was to start scrubbing his back and shoulders, loosening the film of dirt that had formed over his paint just from living down here. The dirt was in the air; it didn’t matter what they were doing, even taking a walk outside let the stuff settle on them, and there was nothing for it but to try to keep ahead of it.

“Hmm. You have such beautiful colors, the pair of you,” Knockout hummed appreciatively.

“We’re black and white,” Jazz laughed. “What’s colorful about that?”

“You’re not  _ all  _ black and white.” Knockout’s gaze travelled over their frames, lingering on Jazz’s blue and Ricochet’s yellow highlights. “And even your black and white have warm and cool nuances to them to match your colors. Like your optics,” he said, winking one of his. “What a trio we make.”

“We’ll make an even better trio when you come over here for your bath.” Ricochet eyed the other towel scraps they had, looking for one that wasn’t grimy or wet. Picking one, he poured a little of the acetone on it and held it out to Knockout enticingly. “Here kitty, kitty.”

“I was just giving you both a chance to focus on each other while I enjoyed the show,” Knockout said, doing an absolutely pathetic job of resisting the temptation to get clean. He slid off the bed and sauntered over to join them. “It’s easier to have your undivided attention on  _ me  _ that way.”

“But it’s more fun to have you here.”

“You have  _ most _ of our attention anyway.”

Both twins giggled. 

Playful or not, Ricochet took cleaning duties seriously. Even though they couldn’t approach the sheer amount of  _ shine _ they’d been able to get with their performance polish, Knockout was gorgeous, and he didn’t need highlights to be striking. And cleaning made the vampire purr in a way that even interfacing didn’t manage.

“Love that sound,” Jazz hummed, pitching his engine to harmonize with it. He was stroking one of the brand new polishing cloths over the planes of Knockout’s helm, and Ricochet could feel his renewed awe at actually getting to do such a thing. From admiring him from afar to  _ living  _ with him! A lot of things had changed for the worse for them since the Breakout, but this was special.  _ They  _ were special. 

Knockout’s smile showed his fangs as he admired himself when they were done. “You two are amazing.” He cast a regretful look toward the nest, then to the sky none of them could see with a sigh. “As much as I love spending time with you two…”

“Sunrise?” Jazz guessed, stowing what little they hadn’t used so it wouldn’t evaporate or get knocked over by accident.

“Unfortunately.”

“We’ll cuddle until you drop off,” Ricochet offered.

“I won’t say no to that,” Knockout said, pulling Ricochet over to the bed to arrange him in it before snuggling up next to him. Then he waved a hand behind him, whining when he didn’t encounter anything in the space where Jazz was supposed to be.

“Coming!” Jazz leapt across the room before settling gently onto the bed, careful not to scratch Knockout’s finish. “Better?”

“Much.”

This wasn’t quite like dropping off for the night, when Knockout was the one waking up. This time both he and Jazz were wide awake, while Knockout idly traced patterns across Ricochet’s armor with one claw, no sleepiness at all.

Until the unseen sun rose and the vampire went utterly limp.

Carefully — he didn’t want to scratch Knockout’s paint either! — Ricochet wiggled out of the heavy embrace. The vampire couldn’t see or feel or sense it, but he pulled their largest intact blanket over him anyway, just because it looked more comfortable than being exposed to the cool, dirty air.

“So.” Jazz looked over at him. “What do we need to do today?”

Ricochet scooped up the datapad. It needed to be charged. “My turn to go looking for an exit plan. Maybe try another part of the city, where we won’t get recognized?” He searched through the blankets and other detritus for spare shanix; maybe he could set up shop in a cafe or something instead of wandering around looking for an unsecured datanet connection. They had a jar with their savings, but that was reserved for buying fuel and, hopefully, what they needed to get out of Iacon. If they could find something.

“Don’t go up toward the east pipeline,” Jazz warned. “Blacktop’s gang is mobilizing there, trying to choke out Cyanide’s access to the surface.”

Because of course they were. Ricochet rolled his optics. “Part of me wishes they’d just hurry up and kill each other already.” 

“Whoever won would just find a new rival to fight with, and we’d still be just as screwed. Or forced to join up,” Jazz shuddered. They were already in too deep with Knockout to get clear on their own, even if they’d wanted to leave him behind. Despite not being vampires themselves, they were Decepticons now. Adding the complication of another, mortal gang was the last thing they needed.

“I’ll stay away from them,” Ricochet promised.

“You’d better.” Jazz sighed. “I really hope no one tries knocking on the door today.”

“Me too.” Gangs and beggars and thieves might be their most common problems, but the scary, feral underdark vampires and vampire  _ hunters _ were just as bad.

Accordingly, Ricochet moved cautiously once he was out of their hovel. He tried not to slink, reminding himself that as much as his clean plating made him stand out here, it would be absolutely vital for staying unnoticed on the surface.

The east pipeline was the easiest way to the surface, and a popular place for mechs to gather because it sometimes leaked energon. Usually (assuming the gangs weren’t fighting over it) the crowd let Ricochet slip up to the surface fairly easily. Instead, this cycle he went towards the old trainyard. There was an access point there, in the form of a closed off cargo elevator with a forgotten maintenance shaft and ladder.

Feeling whimsical, Ricochet detoured into the station itself. They’d already tried following the tracks, only to find that they ended just outside the city. They looked like they’d been melted. And the train cars were useless. All of them were broken, and most of them were claimed as others’ shelters. As was the station itself, and Ricochet picked his way around passed out and recharging mechs to the far wall. 

There was a map there, faded but only partially overwritten by graffiti. One that showed the rail system as it had once been, a promise that somewhere out there was something other than Iacon. It gave him hope, and he touched the corner of the map like it was a good luck charm.

The ladder was both in better and worse shape than he remembered it. There were several rungs missing, but others that had been broken before had been repaired by someone. Possibly several someones, since maintaining this access was important to everyone. In that spirit of cooperativeness, Ricochet paused long enough to rewind and tie off some of the wire that had come undone before continuing up and out.

Whatever had originally been here to receive shipments had been built over long ago. Now the maintenance shaft came out in a forgotten, closed off space between three buildings. Getting out into the  _ actual _ alley required climbing over, or moving, the dumpster that blocked off the “end” of the street. Ricochet was only one mech, and not a large one at that, so he chose to climb the trash can, doing his best to keep the refuse from touching his plating. Forget hanging out in a cafe this cycle if he walked in smelling like garbage.

Then he was out, on the actual street, blinking in the sunlight.

For a moment he just stood there, letting his optics adjust. That and revelling in the sight just a little bit. He’d never thought much of the sun before — frag, as musicians he and Jazz had worked more nights than days! — but now that they lived cut off from it, he missed it. 

The sun wasn’t what he was here for though, and once he could see well enough to assess the state of his plating, he set off in search of a cafe. He’d made it up without losing his veneer of respectability; now all he had to do was hide the marks on his neck. Below the plate those scars were a double-edged sword, protecting them from some while making them a target for others, but up here they were nothing  _ but  _ a target.

He found a place that was only just opening — the Vice and Virtue Lunchroom — and peeked in. The waiter was still busy, and all the tables were still empty so maybe if he…

“Find yourself a place to sit,” the waiter called, without looking up. “I’ll be with you in a klik.”

Pleased with himself for timing things correctly, Ricochet swiftly picked out a booth and sat so that his scars would be facing the wall instead of visible to the room. The menu was already set out on the table, so he flipped through it, looking for something he could afford with the pocket change he’d found.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the waiter said when he came over. “What can I get started for you?”

“Just a small warmed midgrade with…” Ricochet squinted at the menu, “um, do you have aluminum puffs?” He tried to look a little down on his luck so he’d take pity on him, since he couldn’t afford either the fancy silver puffs or the copper puffs that were actually on the menu.

He must have succeeded. “I’ll see what we have,” the waiter said with a flicker of sympathy in his optics. “Did you want the datanet password?”

“Yes, please.” Even if he couldn’t really use it until he found a place to plug in the datapad. There should be a place under the table somewhere…

“It’s vvbvQ2DD. I’ll bring your drink over in just a nano.” 

Once the waiter turned away, Rico went looking for the outlet. With only a little bit of fumbling he found it, and the datapad’s charging light lit up as soon as he plugged it in. Whew! He would have had to move if the outlet was dead, and he didn’t want to. He liked his corner, thank you very much!

Jazz’s music writing program was still on, and Ricochet saved and minimized that. Then he brought up the OneMech’sJunk site to start searching. They often found useful things here, like that time Jazz had managed to snag almost a dozen bottles of otherwise good acetone just because they were almost to their expiration dates, but this cycle he’d come up here to look for something  _ specific: _ a covered trailer. Something they could pack their stuff into that Knockout could take shelter in during the day while they towed it away from Iacon and hopefully someplace better.

Not an easy thing to find, since they needed it for more than scrap metal, but could barely afford one in even that condition.

“Here you go,” the waiter said, catching Ricochet’s attention. “One small warmed midgrade with aluminum puffs.” He slid the cube, which was clearly a  _ large,  _ across the table. 

Ricochet blinked at it, then up at the waiter. He didn’t mind taking charity, but he wasn’t used to it, and he  _ really _ didn’t want to get charged for a large when he tried to leave.

“Would you like your receipt now?” The waiter turned his datapad around to show Ricochet the total: he’d rung the drink up as a small after all.

“Please,” Ricochet said, trying to sound confident and not scared. At least, if he paid now, if he had to run because someone saw Knockout’s bite, he wouldn’t be stealing. Pulling out the change, he counted out what he needed, debating a tip. It’d be a small one.

“Don’t worry about it,” the waiter said, and if Ricochet’d had enough pride to be offended, he might have been. As it was, he took that as permission just to pay the bill and call it good. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you,” Ricochet managed as he left. He wrapped his hands around the cube and pulled it in close, leeching its warmth. Then he turned to the datapad to get serious searching.  _ As long as you like _ realistically meant  _ until the end of my shift, _ and since he didn’t have enough to buy space at a table at another cafe, he’d have to return under plate then.

He didn’t have much luck. There were a few different trailers listed, but there was a problem with all of them. The first was the same listing he’d seen before, and Jazz before him. The seller was asking too much for it, and clearly wouldn’t be open to negotiating if he wasn’t even lowering the price after so long to try to attract buyers. The next listing was new, but Ricochet could tell from just the thumbnail photos that it was useless for their purposes. The metal was too degraded, would let light in through too many places, and they wouldn’t get very far with one of the tires missing. Too expensive, too busted up… Ricochet saved one listing to discuss with Jazz and Knockout, but it was mostly to feel like he’d done something than because he thought it was the right fit.

Fortunately, while he wasn’t having much luck with the listings, he was lucky in that none of the lunch crowd gave him any trouble. Other customers came and went, some staying for a while like he was while others just walked up to the counter, made their purchase, then walked out again, but no one gave him more than a passing glance. Thank Primus.

As he’d predicted, the next shift’s waiter started giving him, and his empty cube and his paid bill, sidelong looks almost as soon as he replaced the first mech. Rather than push his luck, Ricochet just packed up his (now charged) datapad and stowed it. He’d long finished the dregs of his drink, but he tipped it into his mouth just to make sure. 

Silently and unobtrusively, he slinked toward the door.

“Hey, is that…” The whisper died away when Ricochet turned to look for the speaker, but the pair of mechs watching him suspiciously were pretty obvious.  _ Slag.  _ Time to get out the door, then  _ run. _ He really didn’t want to have a fight in such a nice cafe where they’d been kind to him, even if now he couldn’t come back. 

He heard one of them getting up behind him, following him to the door.  _ Slag, slag, slag!  _ Fragger was probably going to report him as a ‘Con above the plate, and he’d gotten a good look at him to provide a description to the authorities. Knowing he’d have to double back, Ricochet took off running in the opposite direction he needed to be going without looking back, hoping he could find a good place to either hide, or escape into another neighborhood.

He didn’t know if the lost them, or if they just hadn’t followed far, but when Ricochet paused down a side street to take stock, he didn’t see anyone chasing him. Trying not to shake, he folded himself down into his alt form and started working his way back to the shaft down to the old train station. 

He was still not-shaking when he slinked back to Jazz and the lair.

“You had trouble.” It wasn’t a question; their bond couldn’t communicate details, but Jazz had felt his twin’s panic as Rico was leaving the cafe.

“It’s fine,” Ricochet insisted, but leaned into his twin’s proffered comfort. “No one saw anything until I was already leaving.”

“Did they chase you?”

He shook his head. “Not far. There was no one behind me when I doubled back toward the station.”

“Good.” Jazz wrapped his arms around him. “Glad you’re back safe.”

Relaxing, Ricochet passed Jazz the datapad, which required a bit of juggling given how his hands were full. “Charged it for you, so you can continue your song.”

“Thank you!” Jazz took it with a bright smile. “I’ve been working on it in my head too, trying to pick out some of the missing parts. Can I—”

“Get ‘em down now before you forget them,” Ricochet said, giving his twin a fond shove. 

They spent the rest of the day holed up, working on the song and guarding the hovel. No one did knock on the door, though Ricochet had to step out once to deal with someone scuffling around the side of the lair. The walls were thick enough there was no danger of them getting in quickly or unnoticed, but Rico was careful to discourage the would-be-thief thoroughly from making a second attempt anyway.

Ricochet felt equal parts relieved and excited when Knockout finally stirred. He crawled over and sent a breath towards the vampire’s face just to let him know who was there, then laid down with him on the nest. Knockout didn’t wake slowly like the twins did, and he immediately started running his claws down Ricochet’s spinal struts. 

Jazz, who’d gotten absorbed in his music again and missed him waking, squeaked in surprise. Knockout chuckled.

Ricochet laughed too, but he sobered up quickly. “Didn’t find much. That listing Jazz found before is still up, but the price hasn’t come down. Found one new one, but…”

“Ain’t much better?” Jazz guessed. He shut down his music program and joined them in the nest, finding the listing Ricochet had saved. “Huh. Well, it’s kind of better, but…” 

“You’re absolutely filling me with confidence,” Knockout drawled, peeking at the screen before shaking his head. “No.”

“We could fill the holes in with tarps,” Ricochet offered optimistically. “Or build something out of a packing crate like we’ve got here, only inside it.”

“I’d want to do that anyway for good measure even in a sound trailer. The problem is,” he pointed to part of the description, “that. We need something sturdy, but if the whole shell is made out of that, it will be  _ heavy.  _ You two are sweet,” his finger moved to trace along Ricochet’s jaw and down over the bite marks on his neck, “but I would be lying if I said you were strong. We don’t want to get something that would exhaust all of us to pull.”

Both Jazz and Ricochet frowned in unison. That was a very good point.

“Maybe I can do a little busking,” Jazz offered tentatively. “Clothes aren’t exactly  _ fashionable _ up top, but a scarf or something can cover the marks long enough for me to get some cash, work towards buying the more expensive one.”

“You’d be able to pass off a scarf as part of a stage costume easier than I could explain wearing one sitting in a cafe,” Ricochet nodded. They were both musicians, but Jazz was the better performer, especially solo. “We should see what we have to put something together.”

“Ohh, does this mean I get to dress you up?” Knockout turned so he was facing Jazz, mouth widening in a pleased grin. “I’ll make you  _ irresistible.” _

“I mean, don’t want people carrying me off or anything,” Jazz plucked at a piece of cloth that they’d scavenged that they thought had once been a gauzy curtain. It was orange, and sheer, and fluttered as he twirled and wrapped it around his neck as a makeshift scarf at the same time. “Just to stop and watch and leave some money behind.”

“You’re  _ mine,”  _ Knockout growled, hand coming possessively to Jazz’s throat. “No one’s carrying you off.”

Jazz smiled, utterly unafraid. “That’s what I was saying.”

“Good.” Knockout’s growl settled back into a purr. “Now, let’s see what we can come up with.”

Ricochet lounged on the bed while the two of them got up and started discussing possibilities. He tossed out an opinion or two, but mostly just stayed out of their way. Jazz was having fun, and Knockout was absolutely living up playing his stage manager. It only made sense to leave it up to him. He did have an excellent optic for aesthetics, after all, and the task made for a good excuse for him to get his hands all over Jazz, which made them both shiver.

They didn’t wind up deciding on a costume. Knockout didn’t need to feed tonight, but dress up still eventually turned into sex, and sex turned into sleep. Sated and happy and with hope for the future, Ricochet curled himself up against his equally exhausted twin and followed him down into dreams.

.

.

. 

The horrific  _ screech _ of claws tearing through the metal door of the shipping-crate-turned-hovel bolted them both from sleep into panic. 

“Stay  _ away _ from them!” Knockout’s voice snarled through the gaps, even as the massive hand pulled, ripping the door from the hinges. “They’re  _ mine.” _

A large red optic peered inside, backed by a solid purple frame. 

“What’s going on?” Jazz whispered, trembling, and Ricochet quickly pushed him back so he was between his twin and… and… whatever that  _ thing  _ was.

Knockout too threw himself between the larger being and the twins, snarling with extended teeth and claws.

The purple monster only tilted its optic quizzically. “And your contribution to our Cause will be noted,” it said evenly, crouching to push its way into the hovel. “I require a pair of living twins.”

“Go find them somewhere else then!” Knockout hissed, forced back by the sheer bulk of… the Decepticon? It was the only Cause Ricochet could think of, but Knockout (and they, by extension) was only grudgingly a member of the movement. He participated enough to be left alone — so what was happening?!

“Do not forget your place, peon,” the purple monster said, turning his gaze toward the twins, who cowered away. Ricochet nudged Jazz’s trembling frame down off the berth and deeper into the the lair, toward the shower. 

Knockout snarled again, moving between them once more. Ricochet saw the conflict in his optics. “They’re  _ mine,” _ he repeated.

“And now they are mine.” The monster barely fit at all inside the hovel. It bristled its armor, matching Knockout’s threatening posture despite not having the room for it.

They glared at each other for a klik longer, while the twins pushed themselves as far away from the impending fight as they could.

Then Knockout backed down, stepping aside. “I won’t forget this, Shockwave.”

.

.

.


	3. Curse

.

.

.

They were put in a single shipping crate, but one without even the meager comforts of their hovel. Fear and betrayal burned in their sparks, and Ricochet did his best to comfort Jazz.

He would have been able to do a better job, if he hadn’t needed comfort so badly himself.

Shockwave — and having a name to put to the lack of a face did nothing to alleviate their fears — hadn’t said what he wanted them for. He hadn’t said anything at all, in fact. Jazz hadn’t been able to form the words, but Ricochet had tried demanding answers for both of them again and again and gotten absolutely no response. If they hadn’t heard him speak to Knockout, Rico wouldn’t have thought him capable. 

Not knowing what to expect was agonizing. The only thing they knew about Shockwave was that he was one of the oldest and highest ranked vampires among the Decepticons; the kind of massive, powerful bully Knockout had been a victim of as a gladiator. Not an excuse, Ricochet thought ruthlessly. Knockout hadn’t even  _ tried  _ to stop him. They had screamed and begged and he’d just stood there, fury etched across his beautiful face as he watched Shockwave pluck them from the hovel and carry them off. And for what?  _ Why were they here? _

“He’s going to eat us,” Jazz whimpered softly, too tired to shake anymore in Ricochet’s arms. “Rip our throats out and drain us dry and throw our bodies away to rust.”

“Ain’t,” Ricochet said, hating his lack of confidence in that. “He would’ve already done it, if all he wanted us for was food.”

“What else is there?” What else could a vampire like Shockwave  _ want? _

“I don’t know,” Ricochet said helplessly. So far all he’d done was ignore them. It was impossible to miss the sound of the vampire’s heavy footsteps outside the walls of their container, and while he’d been here earlier, he wasn’t now. Was he in torpor? Or just off somewhere else? Rico’s chronometer said they’d been trapped almost a full cycle at this point.

If he kept ignoring them, they were going to starve… 

The footsteps coming close again jolted him out of that panic and right into an entirely different one. Jazz whimpered, and Ricochet might have liked to claim he hadn’t but… he had.

The door to the cargo crate cracked open, and Jazz scooted back as far as he could go. They were already pressed up against the far wall. Maybe they should make a bid for escape? Ricochet shifted into a crouch. Whatever Shockwave wanted, he’d harm Jazz over his dead body!

The red optic peered in, and again he had to crouch to get through the door. Jazz shivering behind him, Ricochet waited — also shivering, if he was being honest with himself — for the massive vampire to reach out…

“Primus! Get away from us!” He threw himself at the clawed hand, hoping only to entangle it enough for Jazz to slip out of the cargo crate. It worked… kind of. The vampire hissed at the name, and Jazz was able to skitter past him, but Ricochet didn’t so much entangle his hand as become entangled  _ in  _ it. Huge claws closed over his head and torso, sweeping him against the side of the container for leverage before lifting him up. 

“Ricochet!”

_ No! Stay back!  _ Ricochet understood Jazz wanting to help him, but— “Nmph!” Shockwave’s claws were over his mouth, preventing him from invoking Primus’ name again. If Jazz wanted to help,  _ that  _ was the name he should be shouting!

_ Run! _

Jazz didn’t run. “Primus! Primus, PrimusPrimusPrimusPrimusPrim—”

_ “Stop,”  _ Shockwave commanded, his voice remarkably devoid of inflection given the pain he was in. Ricochet could feel his plating flinching against it, and even a vampire’s minimal EM field was detectable with them in physical contact. He was hurting, and he was… impatient?  _ Ow!  _ Suddenly those claws were clenching tighter, crushing the air from his engine and compressing vital fuel lines. Shockwave swung him around in front of him as he stepped out of the container to face Jazz.

Jazz whimpered, the pain rebounding into him, and he quieted with a gulp.  _ No! Run! _

But Jazz still didn’t run, and Shockwave didn’t immediately let up; static started to creep into the corners of Ricochet’s vision before suddenly, without warning, he felt himself falling. He hit the ground, dizzy and disoriented, and failed utterly to scramble away from the rough manacles Shockwave closed over his wrists and ankles. The gag he clamped down over his mouth wasn’t any more comfortable, but unfortunately just as effective. When Shockwave stepped away from him, there was nothing he could do or say to protect Jazz.

Jazz scrambled backwards, finally trying to get away, but the vampire reached for him — “Pri—!” — closing his hand over the smaller mech just like he had Ricochet. Jazz twisted and struggled, but a few kliks later he was as trussed up as his twin.

Regarding them almost quizzically, Shockwave turned away. The datapad he was using flickered erratically as he tapped at it with a stylus, silently taking some sort of notes. 

They both squawked in incoherent outrage when Shockwave picked up Jazz again, placing him on a large table. He spread him out, pulling his feet apart, his hands above his head, while Jazz struggled and tried to curse around the gag.

Jazz couldn’t see from where he was, but Ricochet watched from the floor as Shockwave reached into one of the drawers built into the table (or was the table just a slab set on top of a pair of dented cabinets?) and pulled out— a ball of string?  _ Confusion  _ rippled across their bond, doubling when Shockwave lifted his hand so Jazz could see the string too. They were already tied up! So why the string?

He measured out a length from Jazz’s helm to his feet, then contemplated it, recording the result in his flickering datapad. Then he rolled up the string again and repeated the process just on his leg, arms, shoulders…

It didn’t look like he was interested in hurting them more, for the moment. Ricochet couldn’t see everything he was doing, but while Jazz was confused, uncomfortable, afraid, and vulnerable, he wasn’t in pain. Aside from the whole thing being a complete freakshow, Rico would have compared it to going to a doctor for a tune-up. Shockwave moved on from measurements to simple range-of-motion tests, invasively manipulating Jazz’s frame rather than letting him do it himself like an  _ actual  _ medic would have, then stood there staring at him in silence without moving long enough that Ricochet suspected he was running a scan of some sort. He’d find out soon enough, he supposed, if the vampire was going to put him through the same process.

The pause in combat high and spark crushing horror had Jazz whimpering and trembling again by the time Shockwave picked him up and unceremoniously dumped him back into the cargo crate. The door slammed on his muffled yell of protest.

Ricochet tried to send his twin as much reassurance as he could as he was spread out on the table. He was okay. Ish. He wasn’t in pain, how about that? Not in pain, just, yeah, this was really awkward, and unpleasant, and whatwashishanddoingthere?! Nevermind, he’d moved on. 

He wanted it to be over already, but at the same time, he really, really didn’t. Ricochet knew what would be coming next, right up until the point where Shockwave stopped moving and stood there staring at him. Yup, definitely a scan. But after it was over? What was going to happen then? 

His spark started to pulse faster with mounting panic as the nanokliks ticked down, and he let out a muffled yelp when Shockwave finally moved again.

Instead of being shoved back into the big crate-cage, Shockwave all but dumped him into a much smaller box. Apparently he was easier to carry like that, because the vampire didn’t do anything else but pick it up and start walking.

Away.

Walking away.

_ Jazz! _

Ricochet felt his twin screaming for him inside the container and he howled against his gag, wriggling around in the box to get his legs under him so he could pull himself out—

With a soft hiss of annoyance Ricochet felt more through the vampire’s massive arms than heard with his audios, Shockwave reached in and readjusted him so that he was flat on his back, bound legs dangling helplessly out of the box. No! Nononono, he had to get out! He had to get back to Jazz! But he couldn’t get any leverage; every time he thought he was about to be able to get his legs back in the box, Shockwave would shake it, making him slip back into the same position he’d started from.

Wherever they were going, it took nearly a joor to get there. The surface. He could smell the change in the air, and occasionally see stars above the tops of buildings, but was too exhausted to do more than feebly reach out to his twin, trying to soothe him, when he was dumped out of the box and into another large cargo crate. Shockwave fiddled with something mounted in the corner — a camera? — and a blinking red light came on.

“Whrrng?” He didn’t expect an answer even if he’d been able to articulate clearly past the gag, but he couldn’t help the question. What was he doing? How long was this going to take? He was scared and alone and he  _ hated this!  _

The massive vampire set the datapad to one side. “Begin experiment, zero-zero-nine-beta.”

Ricochet tried to inch away from him, but it was futile. Shockwave turned his attention back to him, holding him down and spreading him out much like he had while taking his measurements. Then— 

“Aaaah!” Ricochet screamed, felt Jazz screaming with him, as his chest was ripped open.

It happened so fast there was almost a delay between his plating being torn away and the full extent of the damage registering to his systems. Energon sprayed from broken lines, spattering his optics and blinding him from the outside while inside his HUD flooded with alerts he couldn’t read because it  _ hurt.  _ **_Pain_ ** blotted out his ability to think, leaving him reaching out instinctively, desperately, for the only anchor he had against the storm.

_ JazzJazzPrimuspleaseJazzmakeitstopmakeitstop _ **_makeitstop!!_ **

.

.

.

**—** _ pmakeitstop _ **_makeitstop!!_ **

_ Ricochet! _ Jazz screamed in his mind, in his spark. He tried to scream out loud, but his voice was muffled. The incoherent yell echoed around the cargo crate, rebounding and amplifying until he couldn’t hear anything else. He kicked, tried to break free of his bonds, but only succeeded in adding ringing  _ thumps _ to the building cacophony.

Oh Primus.  _ Primus. _ It hurt! Jazz reached out, trying to steady his twin against the pain. He couldn’t make it stop; he’d never wanted anything so badly in his life than to be able to make it stop, but he couldn’t. All he could do was  _ be there,  _ sinking into the bond so that Ricochet knew he wasn’t alone, even in the depths of his suffering.

He didn’t know what was happening, and he was afraid. Afraid because for once Ricochet wasn’t even trying to shield him. Ricochet  _ always  _ tried to protect him, even when he shouldn’t, but now whatever was going on was so bad that all he could do was sob and scream and hide behind Jazz, and his pain was so intense Jazz couldn’t hold it all. He shook with it, unable to bear the agony and helplessness.

He was losing Ricochet.

He could feel it. Whatever Shockwave was doing to him, Ricochet was dying. Jazz howled in denial. Nononononono… He barely noticed the brief flare of agony when his vocalizer popped, sparked, and gave out.

No.

Slowly the echoes in the crate quieted; only the pounding of his struggles stayed strong, and even there… Jazz could feel himself tiring. His own aches were nothing compared to Ricochet’s agony, but the damage he was inflicting on himself weakened him.

Then… there was something else. A cold and clinical presence in their bond. 

**_No!_ **

Jazz shrieked against it, throwing up every barrier he could against the intrusion with one “hand” while clinging tightly to the shrinking spark that was his twin with the “other”. Hadn’t they suffered enough? Couldn’t they even die together in peace?!

But then suddenly, they  _ weren’t _ dying. Something, something possessive, and hungry, and  _ alien _ rushed in to fill the cracks of Ricochet’s spark. Jazz tried to scream again. It was cold, and it  _ burned. _

He didn’t even notice when the clinical spark/mind left them. It had left behind the  _ other. _ Jazz tried to claw at it, to tear it free of his twin’s spark, free of their  _ shared spark, _ but it was stuck fast.

_ Get out! Getoutgetout _ **_getout!!_ **

Ricochet was too tired, too far gone, to fight it for himself. He’d faded almost beyond awareness, certainly beyond the point of being able to resist the burning cold _hunger,_ and it took advantage of that opening to burrow deeper. Jazz gasped as he felt it sending out a twisted sort of strength, bolstering his life while deadening something inside. That alienness moved into Ricochet’s spark and made itself right at home, corrupting it utterly.

So preoccupied was he with trying to pry it free of his twin’s spark, he didn’t notice at first when that creeping hunger started seeping across their connection to coil around his own spark as well. He’d sunk so much into helping Ricochet, there was more than enough room for the taint to move in and start changing him as well. It was  _ wrong,  _ on such a fundamental level Jazz didn’t have words for it. A primal, existential horror welled up in him, only to be slowly squeezed out by dark hunger. 

He was losing something; losing  _ himself,  _ losing his  _ music…  _

_ No! _ Jazz writhed, trying to scream, trying to howl. He snatched at the notes, clinging to the songs, but while the alien thing was indifferent to the memory of them, it was quickly eating the joy…

His frame burned. He could feel it, somehow beyond pain. Dark fire ate through his fuel lines, touching, changing what it willed in its wake. Losing his mental battle for his own mind and soul, Jazz couldn’t keep up with the changes. His frame twisted, warped—

Sunrise sent Ricochet down into darkness, and Jazz was unable to resist following.

.

.

.

Everything hurt. 

Jazz groaned as he shifted, frame aching from his helm to his feet. Ow… Through the bond, he could feel Ricochet’s pain, greater even than his own. Ricochet was damaged. They leaned on each other out of habit. Strangely indifferent to each other, they still shared their strength.

He didn’t  _ not  _ remember where he was or how he’d gotten here, but Jazz was still vaguely disoriented sifting through his memories. Something about them was different, distanced; there were strong emotions associated with the most recent ones, but while he knew he’d been enraged and terrified before, he didn’t feel it now. Like reading from a datapad, his memories were just facts. Facts that weren’t important, because they didn’t help him solve his immediate problem.

Which was… well, the first,  _ most  _ immediate problem was that he was still in cuffs. An experimental tug showed them to be weak and rusty, so Jazz mustered his strength and forced his aching limbs to wrench them apart. A sharp metallic tang filled the air as the chain snapped, and Jazz wrinkled his nose at the astringent scent. Not that the pervasive smell of rust was any better, and— ugh! He scrambled away from where he’d woken up, trying to put some distance between himself and the sour splatters of stale energon. 

With the cuffs broken, he easily reached up to release the gag. He groaned at the stretch and release around his teeth, then coughed. Renewed pain flickered through his throat from his burned out vocalizer. Ugh. That was inconvenient. 

He looked around the crate, wrinkling his nose at the emptiness. He couldn’t stay here. Pushing himself to his feet sent more bolts of pain through his systems; he ignored them. It would all go away if he could find… something. And finding it meant getting out of this crate. He took a deep breath, focusing on the scents of rust through the rank miasma of his own fear. That was irrelevant. He needed… There. A weak spot in the shipping crate.

Claws felt awkward on his fingers, and Jazz couldn’t figure out why. Still, they were awfully useful for digging into and prying apart the container. He peeled back the metal bit by bit, forcing his way through until— oh! He jerked back at the sudden onslaught of scents when he broke though, then just as quickly pressed forward again. What was out there? He’d been out there; he knew from his memory, and from the smell. Ricochet had been there too, and so had Shockwave, but there were so many smells Jazz wasn’t sure which was which. He couldn’t remember what Shockwave had smelled like before. Hadn’t noticed? Didn’t remember? Either way, he was  _ pretty  _ sure he knew which scent was his based on how much stronger it was than the rest, but there wasn’t actually anyone out there just now. 

Perfect. No one to stop him from clawing himself the rest of the way out of this crate!

He  _ almost _ had a big enough gap when he heard a distant door open and close, then a set of heavy footsteps coming closer. Shockwave. Frantically he clawed more at the hole he was making and threw himself into the opening, wiggling and squirming and— Ha!

He tumbled to the ground out of the cage. He would have whooped gleefully if, you know, his vocalizer had worked. Now to— eep!

Shockwave filled the doorway, towering over Jazz and overwhelming him with his scent, tilting his giant red optic in detached curiosity.

_ Threat! …threat?  _ Jazz wasn’t sure, but he backed away anyway. The older vampire was bigger and stronger than him, and he wasn’t injured. Not a fight Jazz wanted to take on, but he didn’t look like he wanted to start one, so… Jazz tilted his head too, waiting.

“Come with me, fledgeling,” the big vampire said evenly. “Do not wander off. You are still under observation.” Utterly certain Jazz would obey, he turned away.

Should he follow him? It felt like there was a reason he shouldn’t, but when Jazz tried to examine that thought more closely it dissolved into irrelevance. What mattered now was whether following Shockwave would get him what he needed; hard to judge, when he still wasn’t sure what it was he needed. It wasn’t here though. Which meant there really  _ wasn’t  _ a reason not to follow him.

Jazz followed him.

He wrinkled his nose again, coughing at the scents of soot and filth that swamped him as soon as he left the… the… the room with the crate. And others. Lazily lounging in their lairs, or curiously watching them pass from a distance, there were so… many. 

He heard the sobbing about the same time the scent hit him. Yesss… He still wasn’t sure what it was, but he was certain that was what he needed and his steps quickened. His teeth itched.

Shockwave had said not to wander off, but was it really wandering off if all he was doing was darting ahead to get to the door faster? Shockwave would still be able to “observe” him, and he wanted what was on the other side! 

Oops. Nope. Shockwave caught him effortlessly and hauled him back, picking up Jazz and letting him dangle from his hands with no discernable effort. Drat. Jazz hissed at him in displeasure. 

Shockwave ignored him.  _ Sulk. _

At least they were still headed for the door. Jazz’s sulk was quickly overwhelmed by the scent of the… the something that was on the other side.

“When you enter,” Shockwave suddenly spoke, sounding bored, “look up, and if there is someone watching you, salute with your hand over your spark and say ‘Hail Lord Megatron’ before proceeding.”

Pfft. Whatever.

“If you do not, he will kill you.”

Oh. Being killed was bad. He supposed it wasn’t so bad, such a little thing, if it meant not being killed. And getting to go through the door. He  _ wanted! _

Shockwave opened the door, and put Jazz down just inside. The door closed behind him.

Jazz looked around in interest at the plain, closed room; dirty and stained, he could smell old, soured fuel and suffering. The sobs and scent almost overwhelmed him, and he darted a few steps toward the two cages in front of him before remembering to look up.

There was someone there, a dark shape, equal to Shockwave in size, but with true malevolence in its gaze. Behind it, disdain almost dripping from its wings, was another set of red optics. More gazed hungrily, gleefully down from what had once been the ceiling of a lower room in a multistory building. Dutifully Jazz saluted. Words. He was supposed to say the words. But his vocalizer was— not completely burned out anymore. “Hail Lorrrd Megatronn,” he said, forcing the sounds out around the ache of incomplete self-repair and distended fangs. It really was such a small thing.

The shadow shifted. Jazz heard a pleased rumble.

With a crash, the cages fell open. With fearful cries, the prey inside darted away from the fallen walls. One saw the other and swerved, trying to get to him.

_ Oh,  _ no! That prey was  _ his!  _

Jazz forgot all about shadows and red optics. The nameless need he’d been feeling identified itself as  _ hunger,  _ and he lunged after the fleeing prey with unfamiliar speed. The itch in his teeth became an ache, and he hissed angrily when the more active prey shoved the other out of his path and escaped with only a few scratches.

With a growl of his engine, Jazz circled. The thought that this hunt would be easier with his twin circling around the other side was fleeting. It was true, but unimportant. 

He didn’t see an opening, but the hunger gnawed at his tank, at his teeth, at his spark. Impatient, Jazz lunged again. The two broke apart, fleeing in opposite directions, and Jazz wound up running into the wall of the enclosure before he could correct his course. Why was he so uncoordinated? He didn’t remember having trouble like this before… before. But he’d been slower too, he realized. The speed of his frame was outpacing his thoughts, narrowed down as they were by that insistent, hammering  _ hunger! _

Fumbling his way around, Jazz tore after the closer of the two fleeing prey. The boxy blue frame was slower than the other, and that made it the better target.

Jazz heard a susurrus of sound from the shadows above as he paced back and forth, herding the two prey into a corner, then darting forward to send them scurrying in different directions. It would have been confusing, trying to lunge for both of them at the same time, if he hadn’t already picked his target.

He pounced.

His prey cried out as claws finally connected solidly, sinking in rather than glancing off the blue plating. It stumbled and fell, and Jazz didn’t bother trying to control it. Together they crashed to the ground, impact jarring all of the aches in his frame, but they were nothing compared to the pull on his teeth as he was finally,  _ finally  _ able to bite down on his prey’s throat.

It let out another garbled scream.

“Pipes!”

The other was screaming too, but Jazz barely heard either of them over the rush of the hot, sweet energon pumping past his lips.

“Primus! Get away from him!” Jazz flinched, pulling free of the prey to get away from the sudden pain, but with a silent snarl, he lunged again, trying to get as much of the energon as he could before it soured. Already he had too much of it on his own face, his claws. Dimly he realized he was making a mess, but the thought was quickly swept away by the pleasure of feeding again.

Something hit him in the side, and the accompanying yelled “Primus!” did more to knock him aside than the strike. Enraged, Jazz got his feet and hands underneath himself, digging into the stained gravel. That had hurt! And the prey’s fuel was going to waste!

Again Jazz lunged for the bleeding wound on his prey’s throat, only to be driven back by the blistering, razor-edged words. “Primus! Lord of Light, burn the accursed with your holiness!”

Cursed? Was he cursed? He didn’t feel cursed, just hungry. Hungry and angry at being interrupted, and something about those words  _ did  _ burn something inside him. He needed it to stop saying those things!

“Pri— _ urk!” _ Jazz tackled it before it could finish the word. He just wanted to silence it, but instinct and hunger guided him and he bit, tearing out its vocalizer and a mouthful of cables with a spray of hot energon.

Forgetting about the other one for the moment, Jazz lost himself in the pleasure and satiation of feeding, this time in peace.

It was a shame the other prey had gone cold by the time he returned to it. Jazz managed a few more mouthfuls before the bitterness of death grew too strong for him to bear and he reluctantly abandoned the corpse to start licking his filthy claws. Ugh. Soured, drying fuel and dirt. He was a  _ mess. _

“Very good,” a voice hissed down from above. 

Jazz raised his head, looking up at the ring of red optics and shadows.  _ Danger  _ was up there, and his plating clamped down nervously. What did it want?

“Welcome to the Decepticons,” the voice continued. “Once Shockwave is done with you, you will be privileged in helping us build a better world.”

A better world? Would that better world have lots of prey? And acetone? Jazz wanted acetone. And his twin. Ricochet could have helped him get clean, if he was here. 

Was the voice still talking? It was still talking. “—a world where vampires rule over our mortal prey, in which we will never be caged again. Now go.”

“Come here.” Jazz twisted to see Shockwave at the forgotten door to this room. “Now, fledge.”

Following Shockwave had gotten him prey before. Would it get him acetone this time? Jazz stood and shook himself to free his joints of gravel before walking over to the hulking vampire.  _ Bath? _

Shockwave ignored him.

“Baff?” Jazz tried, unable to speak clearly around his own fangs.

Shockwave continued to ignore him, walking down the hall with the silent expectation that Jazz would stay with him.

Why wouldn’t he stay with him? He had no reason not to. Except maybe to look for Ricochet, but he was a mess. Anyone would smell him coming from miles away like this! 

They seemed to be walking back the way they had come, originally, to the room with the crate. Bleh. Deciding to go look for a bath — and more food and maybe his twin — on his own, Jazz darted down the next branching off corridor/tunnel/covered street thing.

Urk! Shockwave reached out and plucked him off the ground like a kitten. “When I say ‘follow’, fledge, you  _ follow.” _ Pfft. He didn’t even have any fangs!  _ Nyah! _ Shockwave shook him, drawing an indignant yowl from his vocalizer. “I only need you, or your twin, alive until the next nightfall,” Shockwave growled threateningly. “If you wish to live past then, you will behave.”

_ Sulk. _

Shockwave dropped him with a flare of disgust in his dimmed EM field. “Now, follow.”

_ All the sulk!  _ But Jazz did follow, dragging his feet in protest. He didn’t want to die, and Shockwave could all too easily carry out his threat. Promise. 

He whined softly as they walked back into the room with the crate. He didn’t like it here!

“Stand there,” Shockwave pointed to one corner of the room, while he went to a listing shelving unit on the other. Jazz sulked all the way to the corner and crouched there sullenly. “Here.” Shockwave returned with a covered bucket. “Don’t waste it; it’s all you’re getting.”

Don’t waste it? What was it? Jazz pried up a corner of the lid as soon as Shockwave set it down.

Acetone! Or, rather, some sort of acidic liquid. It didn’t have the same bright, clean scent of true cleanser, but it would help get the dried, tacky energon off his plating.

Don’t waste it… Jazz looked around and realized he was standing over a makeshift drain, similar to what he and Ricochet had rigged up in their hovel with Knockout. He could pour the liquid over himself and it would flow away through the cracked tiles, but that would use a lot of it up without doing much good if he didn’t have anything to scrub with. And it didn’t look like Shockwave was going to get one for him. The larger vampire was pulling a large scrap of sheet metal from a pile and holding it up against the hole Jazz had put in the crate-cage. Sparks flew, and Jazz flinched from the electric  _ crack _ of the arc welder.

Maybe he could look for something himself…? 

Watching Shockwave carefully, he seemed absorbed in his repair. He wasn’t  _ really _ disobeying, since he hadn’t been told to stay there and  _ not _ look for a rag or sponge or something, but he didn’t want to get picked up and shaken again.

Scampering over to the shelf, Jazz snatched the first clean-ish rag he saw and dashed back to the drain and the bucket.  _ Mine now! _

He did the best he could, hissing and cringing when the acid burned through more than the dried energon. But he kept at it, rinsing the rag in the bucket as he continued to wash himself, skimming off the scum that formed on the top of the remaining liquid so he wouldn’t just be dirtying himself again. It wasn’t perfect, and it made his claws sting, but it was better than nothing.

It would have been better with his twin to reach the itchy places he couldn’t, but his twin wasn’t here, and Jazz had a sinking suspicion that Shockwave was repairing that shipping crate so he could put him back in it.

He was  _ almost _ clean when he was picked up again by the scruff armor and the rag wrenched from his grip. Shockwave’s giant optic glowed balefully, glaring at him.

Jazz glared back.  _ Mine!  _ He’d stolen that rag fair and square!

With a rumbling growl that shook Jazz down to the struts, Shockwave wordlessly carried him back to the crate and dropped him inside, slamming the door closed.  _ Without giving the rag back! _

_ Rude! _

Jazz sulked for a bit, but that got boring quickly. He tried clawing at a different section of the walls briefly, but heavy footsteps and a tremendous  _ CLANG!  _ on the outside of the container left him huddling in a ball in the center of the small space, very pointedly  _ not clawing anything!  _ See how much he wasn’t clawing anything? 

His defensive huddle eventually relaxed into a bored sprawl when nothing else happened though. How long was he going to be in here? His chronometer wasn’t functioning anymore; the only sense he had of time passing was a flare of  _ hunger/rage/satisfaction!  _ from Ricochet when he finally found something to feed on, and a slow, creeping sensation that he needed to find a secure place to hide soon. 

Then the heavy footsteps were back, and the door opened just long enough for Shockwave to drop his enraged twin into the cage with him. Ricochet got his feet back under him and threw himself at Shockwave, claws outstretched, only to land on the door instead as it slammed closed.

Jazz sat up, watching dispassionately as Ricochet made the same attempt he had to claw his way out. The expected  _ CLANG!  _ on the cage still startled him, and when it didn’t deter his twin, Jazz let out a soft whimper at the even louder follow up  **_CLANG!_ **

Ricochet flinched away from the walls. He was still mad, still twitching to tear into Shockwave, but he didn’t try a third time to escape. Instead he crawled over to where Jazz had curled back up in a ball and yanked him into his lap.

With a yelp, Jazz let him. He maneuvered to curl up around Ricochet with a happy purr, while Ricochet presumptuously examined every inch of him.  _ Mine! My twin! _

His memories told him such possessiveness was obnoxious, but his new instincts found it soothing. Jazz’s purr deepened, and he started picking at what dried flakes of energon he could reach on his twin’s frame. The sour reek of death was still all over him, save for where splashes of acid had burned it away unevenly. If only Shockwave hadn’t stolen his rag! Ricochet’s engine purred back encouragingly.

There was no place to hide inside the crate-cage, but there was no one watching them directly, so Jazz figured that was okay. They’d have to do better, when they could. For now though, the  _ prick, prick, prick _ of his grooming his twin’s plating was slowing and lethargy was seeping into his frame. 

With a growl, Ricochet pushed Jazz down onto the ground and flopped his weight on top of him. 

Sunrise came, and together they knew no more.

.

.

.

They were alone in the crate when the sun set again. Shockwave must lair elsewhere. Which meant… time to claw their way out!

Jazz started to get up, then went limp when his twin growled at him and pushed him back down. He didn’t want to fight with Ricochet. But didn’t Ricochet want out too? There was no food in here! How were they supposed to hunt if there was no food?

Ricochet didn’t seem to care.  _ Stay. Mine. _ He shifted and thrust a still-dirty arm in Jazz’s face.  _ Demand! _ He growled.

_ But!  _ Jazz gave one feeble wiggle in an aborted attempt to escape, then ceded the non-contest. If his twin wanted him to finish grooming him first,  _ then  _ break out of the cage, they could do it that way. He picked at the soured energon clinging to Ricochet’s plating, and felt a deep satisfaction when the other vampire relaxed back into their pile with a purr.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by the sound of a door opening and the approach of heavy footsteps.  _ Shockwave.  _ Jazz wrinkled his nose and Ricochet hissed as he opened their cage. 

“Out. I don’t need failed experiments taking up valuable space in my lab.”

.

.

.


	4. Moon

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.

.

Grumbling discontentedly, Jazz kicked a piece of debris and watched it skitter ahead of him. He kind of wanted to pounce on it, just for the chance to pounce on  _ something, _ but it stopped moving before he could decide if it was worth the effort or not.  _ Sulk. _

He was hungry, and he wanted to hunt, but the area around Shockwave’s lab and the arena had been hunted clean. Those who hadn’t been eaten already had been captured and caged to be doled out later and two fledges just didn’t rate. They’d gotten one more meal, in the arena again but this time with no one but Shockwave watching them, and it had hardly been satisfying. Catching and cornering the prey was sooooo much easier with his twin, but there had only been one; they’d been forced to share. And then, even  _ worse, _ they’d been left to groom themselves without any cleanser or even a  _ rag _ to help. Yuck.

The scutwork Shockwave had them doing — cleaning the lab and scavenging for parts — meant he’d given them an alcove that was deeper into the network of lean-tos, hallways, streets, and buildings than other newly made vampires had access to, which was safer, but it was still an  _ alcove. _ Both of them gathered up flimsies and foils when they could snatch them (Ricochet found them outside the complex when he snuck away from work; Jazz just stole them) to line their alcove and try to make a proper nest, but it was  _ horrible. _ All the sulk.

He sulked a bit less when he drew close enough to their pathetic nest to scent his twin waiting for him. Good; sunrise was coming, and Jazz didn’t like waiting for it alone. 

Red optics looked up from a datapad when Jazz slipped through the makeshift “door” they’d rigged over the end of the alcove. Where had he gotten that? Jazz slunk closer, trying to get a better look.  _ Question? _

_ Mine! _ Ricochet snarled.

Jazz’s plating flattened down as he backed off. Fine. Be that way. Wasn’t like he’d been trying to steal it! He was just curious, that’s all.

_ Sulk. _

Ricochet eyed him for a klik or two longer, then with a satisfied huff turned the datapad’s screen so he could see it. The display looked familiar… 

Music. He was looking at music, notes on the screen in sequences he remembered writing. This was  _ their  _ datapad, from the hovel they’d shared with Knockout.

Why had Ricochet gone back for it?

When all Jazz did was scroll through a few pages, reading and wondering, Ricochet snatched it back with a glare. He huffed, subspacing it. Then he started gathering up the crumpled scraps on the floor into a more cohesive pile than they currently were. Jazz shrugged, then started helping. It wasn’t like they could make it much more comfortable than the thin layer of trash over concrete that it was, but when Ricochet pinned him to sleep at least he’d be warm.

Speaking of…

Ricochet didn’t bother with any sort of asking when he decided they were done. He just yanked Jazz into place and flopped down on top of him. Prrr…

Prrr.

Maybe they’d get to feed again tomorrow, Jazz thought idly. Then the sun rose, and all thoughts stopped.

.

.

.

He was cold, and things hurt… He shifted and the metal piled above him shifted with him. What? He wiggled, but he felt stuck. Why was he stuck? Ricochet had been on top of him before, but now the only thing there was non-living debris.

He didn’t like this. He wanted  _ out! _

The weight squishing him made it hard to move, but not impossible. Whatever had happened while he was in torpor, he’d been lucky enough to wind up facing more-or-less upward, which made for one less thing to worry about. There was no room to turn around, but he was able to begin tunnelling his way slowly towards the surface.

He was damaged, he knew that even though his diagnostics didn’t work very well anymore, but it must not have been very bad because he wasn’t all  _ that _ much hungrier than he had been when he’d gone into torpor. He was always hungry though, and as he started pushing his way to the surface of the pile, he started smelling… well. Odd things. Strange things. Air that was tainted with rust and dirt, yes, but also air that was… was… bigger, somehow, than anything he had smelled before. Death and prey and so many dizzying things that Jazz actually had to stop before pushing the final, large sheet of concrete away so that he could take it all in.

Then… 

_ Light!  _

Jazz flinched, but it didn’t burn. Cautiously he opened his optics and looked around, breathing in the great big  _ open  _ all around him. The wreckage he’d crawled up out of sprawled away from him in every direction, not a single building standing as far as he could see, and when he looked up… 

…and up…

…and up… 

Stars twinkled overhead. Jazz stared, transfixed, at the moon. It was right there. No plate separating him from the sky above. 

He didn’t know what to feel.

“Hey! Over here, there’s a survi—” Jazz turned to look at the prey as it froze. “Urk!” He was hungry, and there was a nice meal! Right there! Where he could pounce it if he wanted, not locked up in a cage by the Decepticons! But—

Jazz looked back up at the moon. Where was his twin? Ricochet would like to see this…

He heard several loud ratchets. Guns, maybe. Some of the Decepticons had guns. But that wasn’t relevant.

“Put those down you idiots!” a voice snarled. “All those’ll do is make him mad.”

Light. Jazz had forgotten what light felt like, and right now he just couldn’t imagine moving, couldn’t imagine doing anything but drinking it in.

“Hey,” said a prey-voice, closer this time. Jazz ignored it until warm fingers actually touched the plating on his arm; he looked into the face of a blue-opticked prey with red markings. The markings meant… meant… he couldn’t remember. “Not pouncing me right away, so that’s a good sign,” the prey muttered. “The moon’s pretty overwhelming, isn’t it?”

_ Yes.  _ Had he nodded? He nodded again, just in case. 

“Fed recently,” the prey murmured. “Suppose that’s good, even if I don’t want to imagine whoever the poor fragger was.” Slowly the prey stroked up Jazz’s arm, gentle and comforting. “You don’t want to eat me though, do you?”

Did he? Yes he did. But… eating it would bring him trouble. He didn’t know what kind of trouble, but he knew it would be Bad. Not worth it. Not while he was only kind-of-hungry and busy with the moonlight.

The prey took his silence as the agreement it was. “Good. Good mech.” It stroked Jazz’s arm again, and showed its not-fangs when it prompted a faint, pleased rumble from Jazz’s engine. “You should come with me.”

Follow? Like Shockwave told him to follow (or else)?  _ Why? _

“Pri— _ frag. _ I wish I knew how much you were understanding. But you’re still nonverbal, even if you’re not really too hungry either.” The prey sighed. “Do you understand clean? Bath? If you come with me, and follow without attacking  _ anyone, _ I’ll get you a bath.”

_ Bath?  _ “Baff!”

“Yes.” The prey’s scent shifted to relief. “A bath.”

“Ratchet,” one of the other-prey whispered harshly, as though trying to both yell at the red-and-white prey and keep Jazz from hearing at the same time. Which was so useless it was stupid. “You can’t really be—”

“And why not,” the prey looked up at the other-prey, optics blazing with challenge, though he smelled more like grief. “Ori— _ Optimus _ hasn’t changed his stance on the relative personhood of vampires in the last cycle,  _ has he?” _

“Uh…”

“Our orders are to look for survivors. This,” he looked back to Jazz, where he was petting the vampire’s shoulder. “This is a survivor.”

A survivor of what? Jazz leaned into the touch, optics dimming as he focused on the pleasure rather than the wreckage around them. It didn’t matter. He  _ was  _ a survivor, and so was his twin. He wasn’t sure exactly where, but somewhere out there Ricochet was alive too, and that was what was important.

That, and getting that bath. And maybe a snack? The red-and-white prey — Ratchet? — had said no attacking anyone if he wanted a bath, but that was just until he was clean. Right?

“Come on,” Ratchet said, withdrawing to stand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Jazz pried himself up out of the rubble and followed.

Those other prey smelled tasty… 

“No,” Ratchet commanded firmly when Jazz eyed them too obviously. “Come on. We’re almost…” They crested the pile of debris and saw a long rope and pulley system, with a flat platform, hanging over the side of the… Jazz didn’t even know how to describe it. Was that the  _ plate? _ Or part of it? What had happened?

_ Question? _

“I don’t know what you’re asking unless you use your words,” Ratchet said matter of factly, but with a spike of acute  _ grief _ in his scent. What was with that? But that wasn’t the most important question, and words were hard. If he had to use words, he wasn’t going to waste time on irrelevant things.

“What happennd to th’platesss?” Jazz asked slowly, frowning at the pronounced lisp.

“Dropped,” Ratchet answered crisply. “By—” he growled, calmed himself. “They’re broken. Someone broke them.”

Oh.  _ Reeeeally  _ broke them, by the look of things. But he was alive, and Ricochet was alive. And hey! Now he didn’t have to do Shockwave’s stupid scutwork! Jazz hissed out a soft giggle at the thought of the stinky lab all smooshed beneath the rubble.

The prey all gave him wide-eyed looks, except Ratchet, whose optics narrowed in anger.

“They were trying to kill you,” one of them snapped. “Still think it’s funny,  _ monster?” _

“Hoist…” Ratchet growled.

But Jazz wasn’t bothered by the insult. Mortals thought vampires were monsters. That was just a fact. The part that confused him was, “Me? Why?”

“Not you specifically,” Ratchet explained with a sigh. “They were trying to get rid of  _ all _ the vampires. Whether they’d done anything to deserve it or not,” he finished harshly, clenching his fist. 

“‘Deserved’ it or not, I’m not getting in the lift with that thing,” one of the prey snapped.

“Fine,” Ratchet snapped back. “Go, then. I’ll wait here for the next one.”

Jazz watched with interest as the others all got on the lift, examining the mechanisms as it started up and carried them up toward what was left of the plate. It wobbled a little at first, then evened out; safe enough to ride when it came back then, and even if it fell, Jazz had claws. He could find something to grab onto.

“So you know what the plate is…” Jazz turned his attention back to Ratchet. “Not a feral,” he said shrewdly.

_ Nope.  _ Wait. Words. “Not a ssstarving feral,” Jazz said, remembering Knockout’s disgust at the thought. He didn’t feel disgusted though, nothing like the disgust at the death-scent of yucky, dead energon. If anything, the idea of starving was just scary.

“How old are you? How long since you were turned?”

Jazz counted back the cycles on his claws. He didn’t even reach the end of his fingers on one hand.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “If I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone you’re a Decepticon unless I say.”

Jazz heard the lift come to a stop behind them. He stepped onto the platform carefully, pacing around the perimeter before coming back to the center to stand. “Why?” he asked Ratchet. 

“Right now, they’ll kill you,” he said simply, stepping onto the lift as well. He didn’t bother with pacing around it, and just stood in the middle.

Jazz didn’t see a mechanism or button so he supposed it must have been a comms signal that let the prey at the top know they were ready. Oh, hey. Comms! He remembered comms!… ish. He hadn’t tried to call Ricochet.

Hey! He could call Ricochet!

Except… He combed through his processor, looking for the right commands and he couldn’t find them. The hardware was there — maybe, Jazz wasn’t one- _ hundred _ percent sure how to check — but all the… the… the…

“I’m perfectly capable of pushing you off this lift if you’re thinking about pouncing me.”

He wasn’t! He… could. Maybe. If he weren’t so sure something Bad would happen if he did. Anyway he hadn’t been thinking about it. “Commssss donn’t work,” he said, pouting. 

Ratchet eyed him critically. “And who were you trying to call?”

Who else? “M’twinn.”

Ratchet turned to look out over the massive debris field, towards the shadowed cliff face of the other unfallen plate. “Twin? I don’t think he’s alive, if he was out there with you.”

Jazz hissed. Ricochet wasn’t dead! He’d know if he was dead!

“Words,” Ratchet said fearlessly, despite the spike of fear in his scent. He wasn’t pretending not to be afraid though; he just wasn’t letting it get in his way. Jazz quieted when he realized hissing wouldn’t do him any good.

“I cannn fffeel him,” he said a moment later. “Alivvve.”

“Ah.” Ratchet contemplated the debris again. His expression twisted oddly as he decided what to say. “We’re retreating from the fallen areas for tonight. If he’s aware enough to find a place to lair up for the day, you might be able to find him tomorrow.”

That… was fine. Ricochet would be fine, and Jazz would get a bath now, and look for him later. Bleh. He’d have to lair alone though.  _ Sulk. _

“Unless you want to go look for him now,” Ratchet said snippily. “But if you do, I can’t guarantee you won’t get shot by someone while you’re running around alone.”

Jazz shook his head. “Donnn’t wanna get sssshot,” he said firmly. “Ssstay.”

For now.

The lift came to a stop, and there were mechs there with guns, which Ratchet gestured to back up. They did so and formed a loose circle around the pair as Ratchet led the way.

Everywhere there were prey. So  _ many _ prey. And a lot of them were injured already.  _ Easy _ prey. Except Ratchet had said no pouncing, and he was surrounded by guns. He could come back when the guns were gone though. Injured mortals stayed injured for awhile. They’d still be easy prey later.

“Here,” Ratchet opened up a tent, and a sharp scent wafted out that was kind of fam..il.. Acetone!  _ Real _ acetone. For cleaning! Ignoring Jazz’s sudden excitement, Ratchet glared at the guards. “You’re not all going to fit. Chill. I can handle one vampire.”

Two of the guards followed them in anyway, but Jazz didn’t care. He was finally going to be  _ clean  _ again! A rag. He needed a rag—

“Hold still,” Ratchet barked, setting up a bag with a nozzle filled with acetone, hanging it on a high hook. He attached a hose with a sprayer to the nozzle then let it hang while he retrieved a cloth. “Kneel down and I’ll clean you up. We don’t have enough to waste on your flailing.”

Hey! He wasn’t wasteful with cleaning supplies! But… really? Ratchet was going to wash him? He’d get all the places Jazz couldn’t reach? And all he had to do was kneel down?

Jazz dropped to the floor without a second thought.

“Good mech,” Ratchet praised. “No wonder I thought you were a feral. You’re filthy.” He came over, and the sprayer came on briefly, shocking Jazz with a brief spritz of cool, astringent,  _ not-acidic _ acetone. Then he started scrubbing circles on Jazz’s shoulder plating with the cloth.

It was  _ heaven. _

No wonder Knockout had liked this so much.

Jazz purred, shuttering his optics and leaning into the strokes. He’d stay just for this. As long as he could hunt for food, anyway. 

Ratchet didn’t talk or anything while he washed Jazz, spraying him with the acetone, and then scouring the loosened grime away. Not-talking was fine with Jazz. Words were hard. He didn’t like words. Hmmm… yes. This was good. 

Large footsteps approached, sounding like Shockwave. He couldn’t  _ smell _ Shockwave, but… He sneezed the acetone scent out, only for it to be immediately be replaced. Unwilling to leave the spray, Jazz turned his optics back on to watch the entrance to the tent. He didn’t  _ want  _ to do anything for Shockwave!

But it wasn’t Shockwave. It wasn’t even another vampire, though it was also very much Not Food. Even more than Ratchet, who would just be Bad to eat for… reasons. This being had Jazz instinctively backing away a little bit, not wanting to touch him, let alone bite him.

Ratchet’s hand tightened on Jazz’s plating into an actual hold. “Stay.” He looked up at the newcomer, practically throwing a challenge out in his field. “What? He crawled from the rubble. Dirty and confused. Did you expect me to leave him?”

“I would never,” the big Not Food rumbled. “I thought you were in agreement with Prowl, though, about the dangers vampires posed. He’s already thrown his first desk over the news.”

“Megatronus  _ lied _ to you,” Ratchet snapped back, “with every treacherous breath he took. This one’s only three cycles old; I doubt he even knows what a lie is, much less ever told one. Frag, he can  _ barely speak _ yet.”

Pfft. Jazz  _ knew  _ what lies were. There was just no reason to tell any. Except one: unless Ratchet said, he wasn’t a Decepticon. Because he didn’t want to die.

He wasn’t so sure he wanted to be a Decepticon anyway, but for now that’s what he was.

“I’m not going to advocate killing him,” the large being said. “He’s a person, if a different one. But I have to wonder what you think you’re going to do with him.”

“I don’t know, Ori— Prime. Maybe he can be an Autobot.” Ratchet’s  _ challenge _ whipped around them again. “He can’t be worse than those Pri—  _ damned fraggers _ you replaced.”

Was being an Autobot a good thing? The dangerous shadow had said being a Decepticon meant building a better world, but talk about liars! All he’d gotten to do as a Decepticon was Shockwave’s scutwork. As a vampire, anyway, but his cycles as a mortal minion hardly counted. Maybe being an Autobot would be easier. 

“You know that’s not true,” Ori—Prime said, gently. “He could be just as bad, if he chose to.”

“Going to kill him before giving him that chance?”

“No.”

Then they were both looking expectantly at Jazz.  _ What? _ “Whatss?”

“It’s not fair to ask him right now,” Ratchet said firmly. “Let’s finish the bath, get him fixed up first. Maybe even see if we can find a volunteer to feed him, before asking him about hunting other vampires.” He petted Jazz’s helm. “He’s looking for his twin, and we can’t ask him to set that aside to fight for us.”

For a nanoklik, Jazz thought Ori-Prime would say something else. Then he nodded. “That will give us time to figure out what we can offer in return for his services,” he said lowly. 

So he didn’t have to decide now? And they weren’t going to kill him? Jazz relaxed. Okay. He could work with that.

The big Not Food tilted his head, looking at Jazz curiously as Ratchet returned to the task of bathing him. “Didn’t the gladiators have shorter fangs?”

Huh. Now that he thought about it, Knockout  _ had  _ had shorter fangs — except when he was biting them. Was that something Jazz could do too? He’d have to see if he could figure out how.

Later.

Right now Ratchet was giving him a bath, and he never wanted it to end.

.

.

.


	5. Ghost Story

.

.

.

The battle had been brutal. They’d known for some time that the Decepticons were gearing up for a big push, but they hadn’t known exactly when or where the blow would fall. As such, the initial assault had left those on the unsuspecting front lines scrabbling to hold long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

Ultimately they’d succeeded in repelling the monstrous horde, but at a heavy cost. Sideswipe was one of the few able to walk away under his own power, but he couldn’t have if it hadn’t been for his twin. Sunstreaker had darted across the field at Sideswipe’s flare of panic, diving to cover him when the mortar shell struck.

Sunstreaker was practically in pieces when he was evaced off the field; Sideswipe wanted to follow the ambulance, but he had a job to do, and that job was to  _ hold the Primusdamned line! _

It didn’t stop him from breaking every speed limit getting to the hospital as soon as the last Decepticon was confirmed off of the field. He was going to get in trouble for that — technically AWOL and all — but he needed to see his twin.

He burst through the front door of what had once been Iacon’s Central Hospital, just outside the Towers district, which was one of only about five hospitals still standing and the only place an injured Autobot would be sent once he was evaced from the MASH tent. “Sunstreaker! Where is he?”

The mech behind the intake desk recognized him on sight, and waved him over with a gesture to hold; Sideswipe would have told him there was no  _ way  _ he was waiting to see Sunstreaker, but then he tapped his helm to indicate he was on a call and motioned to the screen where he’d just finished entering a query for Sunstreaker’s status. A room number flashed next to the words Condition: Stable.

Stable… Sideswipe did not take off running. He’d get in trouble and maybe get kicked out for being disruptive. Besides, stable meant he wasn’t dying.

Stable didn’t mean he was recovering either, Sideswipe thought. Stable could just mean he’d been successfully put into medical stasis and  _ wasn’t dying. _ He couldn’t tell through the bond. All he’d been able to get from Sunstreaker since he’d been knocked unconscious was  _ there-and-hurting,  _ which wasn’t enough reassurance.

He needed to see him.

Sideswipe stood anxiously in front of the elevator for all of two nanokliks before giving up on it and just taking the stairs. It was only the sixth floor he needed to get to, not the sixteenth — though even then, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to wait on the slow moving elevator and everyone wanting to get in and out on every single floor. 

Exhausted from the battle and the sprint back to the hospital, Sideswipe’s legs were on the verge of giving out when he finally made it to his twin’s room. He was alone, laying on the berth covered in bandages. Several pieces of his armor were still missing, and those that were left looked worse for wear, but the monitors he was hooked up to showed that his fuel and fluid levels were stable, fuel pump injection was solid, and his spark rate—

“…Sides?”

—evened out and strengthened as Sideswipe collapsed into the chair beside him and took his hand. “Hey, bro. How’re you feeling?”

Sunstreaker gave his twin the best dirty look he could, given that one of his optics was still dark; it only prompted a relieved laugh from Sideswipe.

That relief redoubled along the bond as Sunstreaker turned his gaze to examining Sideswipe. “You’re okay,” he said softly, a statement more than a question that nonetheless begged confirmation.

“Well duh,” Sideswipe glossed over his own injuries — which were all minor and had already been patched up in the field. “You’re the one who’s in the hospital. And you never answered my question?”

“Because I’m trying not to think about it.” Sunstreaker’s engine gave a short cough, which prompted a quiet groan of pain. “I got blown up. How do you  _ think  _ I feel?”

“Cranky and bored,” Sideswipe guessed. He smoothed the hand not holding his brother’s across dinged yellow plating. “Stressed that you’re not going to get a proper polish until you’re released.”  _ Not dead, not dead, not dead… _

Sunstreaker’s functioning optic glowed with emotion.  _ Grateful/relieved/not dead.  _ “I hate hospitals,” he grumbled. “How long do they want to keep me here this time?”

“Umm…” Sideswipe’s optics darted around the room until they landed on the chart hanging on the other side of the berth. “Let me check.”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to completely let go of Sunstreaker as he walked around the berth, so his fingers trailed across yellow plating, skimming over his brother’s frame, until he got there and had no choice but to use two hands to pick up the datapad and scroll it down to the doctor’s notes. 

And, well, it was password protected, but that hadn’t been a real obstacle in vorns.

“Decacycle for the repairs, and a couple more for physical therapy,” Sideswipe read off. “Bleh.”

“Ugh. Really? How do they expect me not to go crazy?” Because, of course, a lot of it would just be laying on the berth waiting for repairs to integrate. “At least I’m not stuck with you as my roommate this time.”

“Love you too, bro. Maybe I won’t give you this,” Sideswipe set the medical chart aside and produced the large-screened datapad with Sunstreaker’s art programs loaded up that he’d been, er, admiring, before the battle broke out from his subspace, “and just let you suffer.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sunstreaker said, optic narrowing dangerously. “What are you doing with that anyway?”

“Nothing!” He’d just been  _ looking _ at the pictures, since Sunstreaker liked to hide them. He hadn’t messed with them or anything, no matter how tempting it was to draw evil mustaches on the sketches of, um, certain people.

“You were peeking,” Sunstreaker accused, making a feeble swipe for the datapad.

“Wasn’t,” Sideswipe lied, letting his twin grab it. Sunstreaker ~~rightly~~ didn’t believe him, but didn’t press the issue. He just took the datapad and held it protectively, glaring at Sideswipe over the edge of it.

He didn’t say thank you, but that was alright. Sideswipe knew.

“Sideswipe?” a voice called from the door. Both twins looked up to see Bumblebee standing just outside in the hall. “Oh! Hi Sunstreaker. I’m glad you’re awake.”

“Can hardly sleep through Sideswipe’s racket,” Sunstreaker muttered, and Sideswipe shoved him lightly.

“Hi Bumblebee. Looking for me?”

“Ratchet more than me, but yes. He wants to know if you’re well enough to volunteer for Bluestreak,” Bumblebee explained. “You don’t have to though. I’ll go, if you’d rather stay here.”

Both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s optics narrowed in unison. “Won’t that cut into your recovery time before feeding Jazz?”

“Not really.” Bumblebee folded his arms together behind his head. “Jazz is too injured to feed tonight, so he’s getting repairs first, then we’ll be picking up with Blaster tomorrow, since he’s the biggest frame and the only one who wasn’t fighting tonight. So?”

Jazz was too injured to feed? How did that even happen to a vampire? Sideswipe didn’t want to leave Sunstreaker… but his twin’s curiosity bubbling up alongside his own decided him. “Nah, I can still do it. It’ll give Sunny a break from my ‘racket’,” he teased. “Where is he?”

“Sniper debrief should be over soon so…” Bumblebee swung back and forth on his heels, fidgeting. How did such a fidgety little guy ever manage to stay still as a scout? “Vampire Central, I’d guess.”

Vampire Central. Ratchet didn’t like that name, but it was better than some of the civvies who called it a  _ zoo. _

“Ah. Well then.” He could call Ratchet while he ~~snooped around~~ made his way downstairs to find out exactly where to meet Bluestreak and whoever was chaperoning tonight. Ratchet didn’t allow unsupervised feedings, and preferred to oversee them in person, but sometimes — like, say, after a major battle — he just couldn’t spare the time.

“Want me to sit with Sunstreaker until you get back?” Bumblebee asked, guileless.

“If he’ll have you,” Sideswipe quipped, patting his twin’s shoulder one more time before stepping away to trade places with Bumblebee. “Ask him to show you his latest sketch!”

“It’s not ready yet!” Sunstreaker huffed, clutching the datapad to his chest.

Sideswipe laughed, Bumblebee’s response of “You don’t have to…” fading behind him as he set off for the vampire ward of the hospital.

This time Sideswipe took the stairs because you needed a specific key-card  _ and _ a password to even get the elevator to go down that far. There were only a few doctors and nurses who had access; there were only a few doctors and nurses who dared. The door to the ward from the staircase, however, was exactly the same as all the others, only locked. 

Sideswipe slipped a stiff card between the door and the doorframe, then slid it down until it had pried the lock open, and pushed the door in. As it swung closed behind him, he made sure to wedge the card in there to keep the lock from engaging, almost by instinct. Vampire hunting 101: don’t ever trap yourself in.

He’d expected it to be… spooky, somehow, down here, but it didn’t look any different from the rest of the hospital. Just a little quieter. Which made sense. Fewer patients, fewer doctors and nurses bustling about, running from one task to the next…

Scratch that. It  _ was _ spooky. Spookily deserted. Weird.

At least that made it easy to find where they were keeping Jazz. There was only one occupied room: one of the intensive care units. 

_ Don’t approach an injured vampire until sunrise, _ Ironhide’s voice whispered from his training, so instead of opening the door, Sideswipe circled, winding through hallways looking for an observation room where Jazz wouldn’t get his scent.

He found it dark and empty. Slipping inside quietly without turning on the light, Sideswipe made his way over to the heavy, reinforced window to look down on—  _ Primus!  _

His hands flew up to cover his mouth automatically, even though he hadn’t actually made any noise. That was— well, it  _ was  _ Jazz, technically. He was still identifiable, just… barely. Whatever had happened to him had left him absolutely flayed. His characteristic visor was missing, exposing darkened red optics. Shredded wires and cables trailed limply out of dozens of gaps in his plating, bits of debris and other parts of his own frame tangled up in them, giving the impression he was hanging off the medical berth as much as laying on it.  _ Nothing  _ had been patched, and there were discolored puddles in various places on the floor where different fluids had dripped and pooled. 

Was that…? Sideswipe moved along the window for a different angle. It was! The vampire’s  _ spark chamber  _ was exposed, but there wasn’t even a monitor attached, let alone any kind of spark support. The only medical equipment Sideswipe could see was an air compressor, positioned beside him to feed air into his crumpled engine.

The light flicked on and Sideswipe shrieked.

“What are you doing here?” The medic, the new one rumor said had been a Decepticon minion, practically stalked into the observation room, adjusting the square frames of his yellow glasses and staring down the barrel of Sideswipe’s cocked and ready sidearm, cooly unimpressed.

“Gah.” Sideswipe pulled in a steadying breath and sent a pulse of reassurance to his twin. Sheer unadulterated terror? What sheer unadulterated terror? He was fine! Nothing wrong here! “Having a spark attack, apparently. How did you—”

“Come with me,” the medic interrupted, his voice still completely flat. “This is not a safe place for you.”

“Because of Jazz?” Sideswipe had started to put his gun back in its holster, but now he kept it out. 

The medic didn’t answer his question. “This way,” he said, and Sideswipe decided it might be a good idea to just follow him rather than test the resolve in those orange optics. Flight frame or not, the rotary was a medic, and medics were built tough. Mech probably had more than enough strength to physically drag Sideswipe out of the room.

“So—”

“Shh.”

Oookay then. Sideswipe snapped his mouth shut and kept close, gun still at the ready in case… in case. 

When they reached the opposite side of the ward, the medic gestured Sideswipe into a room and stepped in with him. The door closed with the hiss of an airlock. “Now that you’re no longer in danger of becoming a meal,” the medic said, somehow even less impressed than before, “I’ll ask again: what are you doing here?”

“Um, actually, to be a meal,” Sideswipe said, finally feeling safe to holster his gun. “I’m one of Bluestreak’s volunteers.”

“Bluestreak was repaired and discharged earlier,” the medic informed him. “He’ll probably be a little impatient, maybe growly, but his control is intact.”

“Control?” 

The mech huffed. His optics shut off and he dislodged the glasses to massage his nasal ridge. “Some vampire hunter. Vampires  _ feed _ to heal.”

“I know that!” He did! It was why post-battle feedings didn’t follow the usual schedule, to help the Autobot vampires recover faster. Not always an easy thing to arrange when the usual volunteers got hurt and couldn’t afford to be weakened further, but still. 

The medic sighed, and as he pulled his hand away from his face, there was a slight mismatch between his optics turning back on and the glasses settling back in place. Sideswipe saw the slivers of red before the lenses filtered the color back to orange and jerked back slightly. He was a vampire?! 

The rumors of him being a Decepticon  _ minion  _ were certainly bogus, whatever else might be true about him. 

But one of those truths was that he was an Autobot medic now, and hardly their only vampiric ally. Once he got over the surprise of it, Sideswipe relaxed. “If vampires feed to heal, why isn’t anyone feeding Jazz? Or even trying to fix him?  _ You’re  _ a vampire,” he tossed out, not quite daring him to deny it. “You don’t have to wait until he’s in torpor to be safe.”

“You sound worried,” the medic said in surprise.

“Of course I’m worried! I’ve never seen anyone damaged that badly and not—”  _ die,  _ he didn’t finish. Jazz was a vampire. As long as his spark chamber remained intact, even exposed in an utter wreck of a frame, he couldn’t die. “He will be okay, won’t he?”

“He will,” the vampire said flatly. “He’s unconscious now. We’ll fix him when he goes into torpor, and then he should be safe to feed when he wakes. We’re not doing it now because he may become combative if woken, and right now, with so much damage to heal… he’s starving.”

“He’s… oh.”  _ Oh.  _ Cold dread poured down Sideswipe’s spinal strut. Starving vampires fell back on instinct. They lost the ability to speak, even to think, past the all-consuming need for fuel. In that state, if Jazz had caught even the tiniest whiff of him… 

_ Sides??!? _

The bond didn’t carry actual words, but Sunstreaker’s concern and demand to know what was going on was crystal clear.  _ Safe,  _ Sideswipe sent back, focusing on the fact that he was indeed safe now. The danger he hadn’t even realized he was in was behind him, and he was  _ never  _ making that mistake again!

“Thanks,” he said a moment later. “For, uh, getting me out of there… sir?”

The vampire looked at him quizzically, then shook himself. “Ambulon. Sorry. I still forget things like that. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Yes, please,” Sideswipe nodded fervently. “I’m Sideswipe, by the way. You know, in case you didn’t know which of Bluestreak’s regulars I was.”

“I didn’t.” Ambulon opened the door and paused, smelling or listening Sideswipe wasn’t sure, then briskly led the way down the hall, taking a circuitous route back to the elevator. Sideswipe stayed right behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief when they were on their way back up.

“So… any idea where I’m supposed to meet Bluestreak?”

“I would guess at the asylum, like normal.”

Heh. Yeeeeah, he’d sort of already known that. But he’d been curious about Jazz! And boy, had he gotten answers. Good thing he hadn’t been the only one who was curious, though he expected Sunstreaker to blow up at him just a little bit anyway when he was able to give him the details. “I’ll head on over there then,” he said, stepping out of the elevator when it reached the ground floor.

“Remember there’s a reason the vampire ward is locked in the future,” Ambulon said sharply, scanning his keycard and entering his code to return down.

“I will. Ack! Wait!” Sideswipe threw his hand in the way of the door to stop it from closing. He’d probably get in trouble, but he couldn’t not say anything. Not with Jazz that dangerous. “There maaaay be a door someone left wedged open down there. Just saying.”

Ambulon’s optics narrowed behind his glasses. “I’ll note it.”

“Great. Thanks again!” And Sideswipe side-stepped the elevator, quickly making his escape.

Things were fairly quiet when he arrived at Vampire Central. No one was out lounging or running around in the yard, though he supposed that made sense. Most of the vampires participated in search and rescue after battles, whether they fought in them or not. The key word there being most, Sideswipe reminded himself when he walked into the former admin building and saw Ricochet hanging out in the lobby poking at a datapad while it charged from a nearby wall socket. Jazz might be an Autobot, but his twin very much wasn’t.

His twin… 

“Sideswipe! Took you long enough to get here,” Ironhide called out to him, interrupting his train of thought. “Come on back.”

Dismissing Ricochet for the moment, Sideswipe followed. Usually he actually liked his time with Bluestreak. The vampire was, well, he wasn’t  _ witty _ exactly, given how much trouble vampires in general had with putting their thoughts into words, but he was interesting, and he liked Sideswipe’s jokes, and actually polished Sunstreaker up to his standards… as long as Sunstreaker returned the favor without complaining about “wasting” his good polish on  _ grey _ plating. But this cycle, Sideswipe just wanted to get this over with and get back to Sunstreaker.

In what had once been an office but was now a sitting area with comfortable chairs, Bluestreak paced, irritation practically dripping from his plating. He looked up as Sideswipe entered, and smiled, showing off his long fangs.

“Sssidesswipe! Hi!”

“Bluestreak,” Ironhide said warningly.

Bluestreak shot him a petulant look —  _ sulk _ — but stopped pacing and took a deep breath of air into his engine, pulling in his fangs. “Sideswipe! Hi!” he repeated, with an almost defiant glare at Ironhide.

“Hi,” Sideswipe said with a little wave, somewhat more nervous than usual. The intensity of Bluestreak’s stare as he fixated on his wrist was… well, if he was being honest, it wasn’t that much worse than any other cycle. He could have done without the full-fang greeting though, after the scare he’d had.

Bluestreak looked like he wanted to say more, and he shook his head like he was trying to clear out his processor so he could think. “Can we not small talk this cycle?” he finally managed.

_ He’ll probably be a little impatient, maybe growly, but his control is intact, _ Ambulon had said. Sideswipe was glad he’d gotten that little heads-up now, because Bluestreak was being way more impatient, almost aggressive, even, than he’d ever seen him before. “Sure,” he said, still nervous but ready and willing to go ahead with this. “I know you got repaired and you’re hungry from healing.”

_ Thanks. _ Bluestreak didn’t say it, but Sideswipe saw it in the tilt of one doorwing as he abruptly turned and went to kneel down in the designated spot in front of one of the chairs. Covering his uneasiness with a chuckle (he wouldn’t fool Bluestreak, but he might Ironhide), Sideswipe maneuvered around the expectant vampire to sit in the chair. Ironhide nudged the cleaning supplies toward Bluestreak, equally expectant.

_ Sulk.  _ Bluestreak didn’t hesitate though, multitasking through both pouting and cleaning his fangs thoroughly. The pout didn’t survive the taste of the acetone, and he Sideswipe smiled at the familiar  _ this-tastes-awful  _ expression on his face as he set the cloth aside. 

“Good job,” Sideswipe said, reaching out to stroke over Bluestreak’s helm crest. Normally the touch got him a purr, but this time the sound that emerged from Bluestreak’s vocalizer was somewhere between a purr and a growl.

_ He’s just impatient because he was injured, _ Sideswipe reminded himself, holding out his wrist and pulling the armor aside so that the fuel lines were exposed. He continued stroking with his other hand. No one knew why, but there wasn’t a single one of the “tame” vampires that didn’t love being petted, and Ratchet actively encouraged the volunteers to do so, to make this as pleasant for the vampire as possible. The theory was that, if they actually enjoyed this willing-volunteer-don’t-kill sort of feeding because of the petting, then they’d be more inclined to keep doing it, rather than reverting to a more instinct-driven lifestyle of hunting their prey.

Impatient or not, Bluestreak was as slow and careful as ever. No sudden moves as he leaned forward, cradling Sideswipe’s hand, and even stroking back, before he slid his extending fangs into the fuel line. It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation in the world, but after feeling the backlash of Sunny getting blown up right in front of him? A few small puncture wounds barely registered. Sideswipe still used the petting for himself as a distraction from the alert on his HUD about his dropping fuel levels though. Staring at it wouldn’t do any good, since losing fuel was the whole point of this, and it was a kind of fun to see which purrs he could get this time.

At first all of the purrs were mingled with growls, which, yeah, not the best sound really, but one that was new and interesting at least. As his fuel dropped towards fifty percent, Bluestreak’s aggression evened out and he started purring for real. Right now Sideswipe’s favorite growl was the one he got if he ran his fingers over Bluestreak’s optical ridges.

It wasn’t until his fuel dropped to thirty that it occurred to him that Bluestreak usually stopped at fifty. Should he be worrie—

Bluestreak took a large, slurping gulp, pulling Sideswipe all the way down to twenty with a single swallow, then withdrew his fangs from the energon line. He licked the wounds dry, then wiped them clean and bandaged them as he was supposed to.

“Thank you, Sideswipe,” Bluestreak said, distinct and unslurred by his fangs, rubbing his helm against the red plating of his legs. 

“You’re welcome. You did really well,” Sideswipe replied, because he had. He’d stopped by himself, and Ironhide hadn’t needed to intervene. He was just going to feel a little shakier than usual when he got up. No big deal. He petted him a few more times for good measure, just because. “Where are you off to from here?”

Bluestreak thought about that, giving it all due grave consideration. “If Skids isn’t too hurt, I can go play a game with him. But not until after I’ve fed. Which I have now. No hungry vampires near patients,” he said, that last reciting a rule like a personal reminder.

“Nope,” Ironhide cut in. “Yer gonna help with search and rescue.”

_ Sulk. _

“Skids will still be around to play after search and rescue,” Sideswipe pointed out, though he didn’t actually know how hurt he was. “After search and rescue” was nice and vague though, so it was true no matter when they actually managed to hang out. 

“Will,” Bluestreak conceded. He crawled backwards a step before standing. “Maybe I can play with Sunny too? Since he’s hurt.”

“Yeah. Yeah he is.” Bad enough that he wouldn’t be able to do much of anything for awhile, and bad company for anyone who tried to entertain him. Then again, he wouldn’t exactly be able to hurt Bluestreak’s feelings with his bad temper. “I’ll ask him when I get back to the hospital.” Which he should be doing now, only… “Ironhide, can I get a hand up?”

Ironhide narrowed his optics at an unconcerned Bluestreak. “Sure. You okay, kid?”

“Oh, yeah. Just feeling everything that’s happened catching up with me.” But he clung to Ironhide for support even once he was back on his feet. “Maybe I should grab a cube before I go,” he said reluctantly.

“Yeah. Bluestreak, you wanna get one or two for him from wherever Ratchet keeps them?”

“No. I want to go play with Skids.”

Sideswipe giggled while Ironhide grumbled.  _ He _ could have told him that was a bad way to phrase a request to a vampire. “Let me rephrase,” Ironhide said darkly. “Go get two cubes from wherever Ratchet stashes them and bring them back for Sideswipe.”

Bluestreak huffed. “Fine. Tell Sunny I’ll come and we can play something, ‘kay?” He didn’t wait for an answer, stalking off immediately.

“You wanna wait here or in the reception area?” Ironhide asked once Bluestreak was gone.

“Reception area’s fine.” It wasn’t much, but it was just that much closer to Sunstreaker. “I really will be okay. I’m at twenty percent after a battle and a blown up twin, that’s all.”

“Sure, kid.” Ironhide didn’t quite carry Sideswipe down the hall back towards the entrance.

Surprisingly Ricochet was still there with his datapad. It was in kind of rough shape, he saw now that he could take a look, but obviously it still worked. He poked it, and a synthesized melody crackle-popped out of the old, banged up speakers.

“What song is that?” Sideswipe asked once he was seated again and not at risk of falling over.

Ricochet looked up, yellow visor glaring brightly, and hunched possessively over the datapad with a snarl. When Sideswipe didn’t move or try to take it (which he wouldn’t because, geez, he liked his hands where they were thankyouverymuch!), he relaxed a bit. It was dangerous taking  _ anything _ from a vampire, possessive fraggers, but Ricochet was tetchy and possessive even by that standard. “Dunno.”

“You don’t know?” It had to have been his for a while now, given the number of claw marks (new and faded) on the casing. “Then why do you have it?”

“Dunno.” Ricochet tilted his head, examining Sideswipe critically. “Why?”

“Just curious, I guess. It’s not a song I’ve heard before.” Maybe Blaster would know it; he should remember to ask next time he saw him. 

“Jazz wrote it,” Ricochet said slowly, scooting back on the couch to bring his feet up and curl around the datapad. “He says.”

Well,  _ that  _ was unexpected. “Jazz writes music?”

“No.”

Sideswipe frowned. “But… he used to.”

“He says.”

He  _ said? _ How could Ricochet not know something like that about his own twin? But Sideswipe could understand Ricochet sitting here, listening to Jazz’s song over and over again, given how many pieces his twin currently was in over in the hospital. Their bond had to be screaming Jazz’s pain at him. “Jazz’ll be okay. They’ll have him repaired and back up next cycle.”

Ricochet shrugged. “Alive.”

For a given definition of alive, sure. Sideswipe knew that wasn’t always much comfort though, especially when he couldn’t be physically near his twin. “Who’s coming to feed you?” he asked.

“Fed,” Ricochet huffed. “Bored. Battle scared off all the ferals.” He tapped the datapad and made it play the song again, synthesized violinos crooning out the sorrowful melody. “Ratchet’s busy. Can’t get into the kennels.”

“Could search and rescue,” Bluestreak offered, sounding cheerful, coming into the room juggling two cubes of energon. “That’s not boring.”

“Can’t make me,” Ricochet growled. “Not.”

Not an Autobot, he meant, but Sideswipe’s processor was stuck on not hungry, which he obviously wasn’t if he’d already fed. But if he wasn’t hungry— “Why aren’t you with Jazz?” he blurted out. “There’s no reason you can’t be over there right now, so why aren’t you?”

“Alive,” Ricochet repeated, and this time Sideswipe heard the vampire’s indifference to Jazz’s condition beyond that. “Know where he is.”

“And that’s enough?!” Sideswipe only realized he’d stood when the room swayed around him from the movement. “I saw him! I can’t even imagine how much injuries like that hurt! How does that not affect you?”

Both of the vampires looked at Sideswipe, slight incomprehension in their dim, alien EM fields.

“Kid,” suddenly Ironhide was there, ~~forcing~~ helping Sideswipe to sit back down. “Ratch told me not to interfere, but could you freak out when you’re not about to fall over?”

“It’s good advice,” Bluestreak said, and Ricochet nodded in agreement. It made perfect sense to them. “Here.” He pushed the cubes at Sideswipe, who took them automatically. “I’ll go search and rescue. Because I have to.”

Ricochet laughed at him as he left, but all Sideswipe could do was shake. “You’re  _ twins,”  _ he said, stressing the word so much it caused static to pop in his vocalizer. “You’re vampires, but you’re still twins, aren’t you?”

“Are,” Ricochet admitted. “S’weird.”

Being a twin was  _ weird  _ to him?  _ Weird?! _

“Kid?” Ironhide was starting to sound worried, and Sideswipe couldn’t blame him. His field was probably a conflicting riot. How could something so fundamental, so ever-present as  _ part of your own spark  _ be weird?

Ricochet just stared at him, blank and uncomprehending.

_ …Sunny? _

The bond surged in response to his almost fumbling query with Sunstreaker’s love and worry and pain/frustration and  _ where the frag are you? _ He was there, right there, just like he always was, the other half that made Sideswipe whole.

“Okay, kid. We’re leaving.” Ironhide scooped up the cubes, then pulled Sideswipe back to his feet and mostly-carried him back out of the admin building. “Vamp Central’s definitely not the place for shell shock,” he muttered crankily. 

Sideswipe wasn’t shell shocked, but he didn’t have any better words to explain what he was feeling. Disbelief, maybe; disbelief and denial struggling to hold back a rising tide of dread and horror and incredible sadness that all boiled down to one, single thing. “I need Sunstreaker.”

“Drink and walk,” was Ironhide’s condition, holding a cube in Sideswipe’s hands until he took it automatically. “Or I’ll check you into your own room when we get to the hospital.”

No way. He needed to be with Sunstreaker. Sideswipe brought the cube up and began drinking. It could have been battery acid for all he tasted it. Ironhide grunted in satisfaction and continued marching him toward the hospital.

After two cubes, Sideswipe was feeling a little steadier on his feet. As long as they were headed toward that pulse of  _ love/support/fraggit Sides! _ in his spark.

Together they staggered through the front door. The nurse on duty started to come around the desk to check on him, but Ironhide waved him away while Sideswipe told him which room to go to. This time he waited for the elevator, but only because Ironhide’s glare promised dire punishments if he tried to take the stairs.

“Sideswipe!” Sunstreaker had managed to stand, but couldn’t go further, tethered as he was to the medical equipment. “What the frag happened?” 

Sideswipe let go of Ironhide and was across the room in a nanoklik, wrapping himself (carefully!) around his twin. Here. He was right here, spark spinning mere inches away from his own, and he could feel him in front of him and inside him and it  _ wasn’t weird. _

“Promise me,” he said shakily, pulling his awareness back up from where it had fallen into their bond so he could form actual words. “Promise me we’ll never be vampires, Sunny.” 

“We won’t be vampires,” Sunstreaker repeated dutifully, holding him tightly.

“You got this?” Ironhide asked from the doorway. Sideswipe wasn’t sure which of them he was talking to, but he nodded anyway.

“Fine,” he mumbled into Sunstreaker’s shoulder. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Ratchet growled. Oh, that’s who Ironhide had been talking to. “Both of you, get in that berth  _ now.” _

Sideswipe heard Ironhide’s faint chuckle as he left.

“Come on.” Sunstreaker took a step back toward the berth, and Sideswipe disentangled himself just long enough to help his twin lie back down before climbing up beside him and molding himself to his side. Carefully. Because Sunstreaker was still kind of in pieces, and Sideswipe felt bad about worrying him, but he couldn’t help it. He  _ needed  _ him right now.

And Ratchet didn’t try and separate them. He just worked around them while he checked on each twin’s status. They didn’t often warrant the CMO’s personal attention, but he was their favorite, being no more irritated by having to work around them when they were feeling clingy than he was literally all the rest of the time.

“Sideswipe,” he said briskly, “your fuel’s still low. Do you want a drip or are you able to drink a cube?”

What kind of question was that? Of course he could drink a cube! Then Sideswipe realized that would mean letting go of Sunstreaker. Maybe a drip wasn’t such a bad… no. He wasn’t  _ that  _ clingy. “Cube please.”

More prepared to deal with idiot soldiers than Ironhide was, Ratchet produced one from subspace immediately. “Drink slowly and don’t choke, or I’ll sedate you along with putting you on a drip.”

“I’m not going to choke,” Sideswipe insisted, sitting up enough to take the cube and start drinking without spilling any on his twin. 

“Does that mean you’re finally going to tell me what the frag happened?” Sunstreaker asked.

Sideswipe smiled at his snippy tone and the worry underlying the words. “I’ll try to, yeah.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Ratchet asked bluntly.

Sideswipe didn’t answer the question. “Did you know?” he said instead, realizing that if anyone had, surely it was Ratchet. He was their resident vampire expert, after all. “How twins change, I mean. When they’re turned.”

The doctor’s gaze softened, and he reached out with compassion in his field. “Yes,” he said softly. “Ironhide said Ricochet said something to upset you, and Ambulon said he caught you snooping… I know. Not everything, not what it feels like from the inside, but yes.”

“Wait — this is all Ricochet’s fault?”

“No,” Sideswipe said quickly. Sunstreaker did  _ not  _ need to pick a fight with him! “I mean, yes, he’s the one who said it, but it wasn’t like he did it on purpose to upset me. He’s a vampire. No empathy, right?”

“Right.” Ratchet dragged the visitor’s chair to a new spot on the floor and sat down heavily. “No empathy, a mess of new instincts, and a piss poor understanding of things not in their immediate reach or without immediate consequences. And Ricochet’s a bit worse than most, since he was feral for so long.”

Sunstreaker looked between them, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“I can’t say too much, since even if they wouldn’t care, they do deserve medical privacy,” Ratchet said firmly, “but this is part of the standard hunter training, if you’d ever taken the updated classes after we found Ricochet: if he’s any example,” Ratchet quickly pulled in his field and locked it down, showing no emotion, “feral periods obliterate memory. He doesn’t remember anything from before Jazz hauled him in and we got him fed.” 

_ He says,  _ he’d kept saying. So that was why… “He forgot Jazz’s music.” The music Jazz no longer wrote. 

On the table beside the berth, Sunstreaker’s art tablet sat quietly in powersave. 

Sideswipe felt his spark constrict all over again.

He felt more than saw Sunstreaker’s helpless look. Carefully his twin’s hands pulled him back down to lay against him.

“Music? Ah. The datapad.” Ratchet awkwardly reached over and patted Sideswipe’s shoulder. “Was he playing with it again?” 

“Yeah. But he doesn’t know why it matters.” Sideswipe didn’t move, watching Ratchet’s face as he continued talking to his twin. “I saw Jazz downstairs, Sunny. He’s a wreck. The kind of wreck that if it were you, they’d probably have to sedate me. And all Ricochet had to say about it, from all the way over in Vampire Central, was that being a twin was weird.”

“Ricochet doesn’t do words very well yet,” Ratchet soothed as shocked understanding flooded Sunstreaker’s half of their spark. “I don’t think he knows anything about not being a twin, so that wouldn’t be weird to him. But… having a sense of another’s pain, something alien to a vampire however faint it is, might make interacting with Jazz feel weird to him.”

“Yeah, not helping Ratchet,” Sunstreaker said, much more gently than he was wont to. It  _ sounded _ weird for him to be comforting, but Sideswipe could feel the absolute love and conviction in their spark. “We’re not becoming vampires. This,” he stroked Sideswipe’s plating, “won’t ever be weird to us. Live and die as mortals, that’s us.”

“Good.” Because Sideswipe couldn’t bear the thought of losing that part of who they were. 

Even having to drink the blood of living mechs to survive wasn’t as horrifying as the knowledge that he could become indifferent to his twin.

.

.

.

End

Happy Halloween!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you need some help with the not-crying (because we did) [here’s twelve minutes of kittens.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ReJGDBBt3U) Enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a link to the [Vampiric Codex Official Timeline](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uS2EX-d3Npd00EkN2SxOa7010AUFPI0TVqiS2vbnsbQ/edit?usp=sharing).


End file.
